


Ill Weeds Grow Apace

by LananiA3O



Series: Batman: Arkham Compendium [18]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games), Batman: Arkham - All Media Types
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Arkham Knight Spoilers, Batfamily Feels, Gen, Jason-Centric, Misunderstandings, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Siblings, Recovery, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2018-08-28 07:38:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 39
Words: 298,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8437021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LananiA3O/pseuds/LananiA3O
Summary: In Gotham and Blüdhaven, holidays are not a time for joy. In Gotham and Blüdhaven, one year after Batman’s public unmasking, the holidays find four watchful protectors realizing that no time of peace lasts forever.





	1. Treat? Or Trick?

**Author's Note:**

> 6th installment in my Arkham Compendium series and sort of my head canon sequel for Arkham Knight. Happy Halloween, everyone!

Gotham could be a beautiful city.

When it was not raining cats and dogs, when there was no fog blocking sight of everything farther away than the reach of your arm, when there were no super villains on the loose, when Vicki Vale’s cleavage or – god forbid – Jack Ryder’s grating voice was not blasting from the billboards, then Gotham could be a beautiful city.

From where Jason was standing, perching, right now, Gotham was ugly as fuck.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come along?”

At least the replacement had the decency to match the tone of his voice to the generally dismal mood. _Good manners_ , Joker cooed in the back of his brain and Jason swallowed hard to push the clown down. He really did not need this. Not tonight of all nights. “Affirmative.”

“You know, technically your symbol matches the spotlight a lot better than—“

“The answer’s still no. Get your ass over there, replacement.”

Predictably, that brought Oracle straight into his comm. He let her admonishments and complaints fly by like a hail of bullets while scanning the surrounding area with his tactical vision mode. Muting her would only cause more trouble later. Next to him, Robin grinned under his mask. “Have it your way, jackass.”

“Don’t encourage him, Tim!”

“Field names, Oracle,” Jason didn’t want to be _that_ guy, but somebody had to. “And stop channeling Alfred, will ya?”

It was a low blow, referencing the one person they all missed equally, but it was true. If Nightwing, Robin and Red Hood had taken over Batman’s territory and duties, then Oracle had become the new Alfred. Mind your language, eat your food, let me research that for you, stop getting sewage on your suit, you still haven’t eaten your food, oh and Jason please _try_ not to murder anyone.

Okay, so the last one was new, but the rest sounded painfully familiar and Jason forced his attention back to where Robin had now landed in front of the restored bat symbol. Like the rest of the building, it had been rebuilt to the point where an unknowing observer would never even guess that sixty tanks had been bombarding the place with heavy fire.

Of course, there were no unknowing observers. Everyone that had not been living under a rock or been stuck in a coma for the last year knew what had happened in Gotham. Yes, the houses had been rebuilt or, in severe cases of structural damage, torn down and the space repurposed. People had moved back into the city and the symbol was still there – still a bat because in between Robin flying the black-and-yellow R, Red Hood flying the red bat and Nightwing flying… whatever blue thing Dick had going on in Blüdhaven, no one had been able to decide what else to use. Yes, all the big names were safely locked up in Blackgate. Yes, Robin and Red Hood had finally settled into a workable patrol arrangement and managed to keep the fragile peace that had followed Bruce’s ‘death’ for a full year now, thanks to excellent support from both Oracle and Lucius, who had somehow managed to save Wayne Industries from going bankrupt despite lawsuits and skydiving stocks.

But underneath it all, underneath the bright lights, Vicki’s cleavage and Mayor James Gordon’s surprisingly good start into politics, Gotham was still rotten. It always would be. And whatever events had led to GCPD lighting the fucking symbol meant that tonight was not going to be a quiet night.

Of course it fucking wouldn’t. It was fucking Halloween.

When he had been young and naive, Jason had loved Halloween. Witches, fairies, zombies, vampires, cool decorations everywhere and – oh my god – pumpkins! As a kid, he had never had the money for a costume, let alone the chance for trick or treating, but he had always, without fail, found the time to nick a carved pumpkin from someone’s doorstep and put it up in his mom’s kitchen or, after her death, in his hideout for the night. He hadn’t even been thinking about it when he had grabbed one for Wayne Manor kitchen at age fourteen, only to be scolded by Bruce and grounded for a week for his petty theft. Alfred had come to him later that day, insisting that Jason tell him why he had done it, then demanding he help him with the grocery shopping, despite Bruce’s protests, and together they had set to the task of raiding the food market in Drescher and acquiring the biggest pumpkin Jason had ever seen in his life. Not only had Alfred shown him how to carve it and allowed him to keep the monster of a jack-o-lantern in his bedroom, he had also shown him how to make pumpkin soup, pumpkin pie, pumpkin dip, pumpkin marmalade, roasted pumpkin seeds and candied pumpkin slices for desert. After that, not even Batman coming home bloody from the various holiday crime shenanigans that were so common in Gotham had been able to spoil his mood. Jason had been in heaven.

And then, last year had happened. Of course Scarecrow had had to pick Halloween, the fucking bastard. Gotham was still holding its Halloween parade tonight, the decorations were still up, kids were still going trick or treating and underdressed teenagers were still going out to get drunk and roofied at cheap parties, and yet there was a near tangible uneasiness in the air. The prices for gasmasks had quadrupled over the last week, supermarkets had been choke full of shoppers hoarding food like the apocalypse was coming and GCPD had declared a full-out vacation ban for the 31st. All hands on deck. No excuses. Same at New Blackgate, where Jonathan Crane, now apparently coherent enough to curse the Arkham Knight with every other word he stuttered, was being kept in strict isolation with six heavily armed guards at his door for tonight.

Fear still lingered in Gotham. Even worse, it still lingered in him.

“Robin! Glad you could make it.” Aaron Cash took one last drag from his cigar before stubbing it out on the railing and shaking Robin’s hand. Cash had won the election for commissioner by a landslide and thank the Lord for that! It was hard finding cops in this city who were both unbribable and tough as nails. _Faith in humanity restored by about 0.000001%._ “Is Red Hood gonna join us, too?”

“Afraid not. He’s frying other fish right now, but he’ll be listening over comms, so go ahead.”

Jason couldn’t help shaking his head at that. It would never cease to amaze him how the replacement managed to pack a lie and a truth right next to each other and make them both sound exactly the same. He was listening all right, but he was about as busy as a sand seller in the Sahara. Truth was there was no statute of limitations on murder. No way in hell was he setting foot on the GCPD roof any time soon.

Down by the bat signal, Cash simply shook his head before handing Robin a PDA. “Well, let’s start with the worst piece of news, then. We’ve had two breakouts at Blackgate’s Max Security Wing earlier today.”

“Please don’t say Scarecrow and Riddler.” The annoyance was clear in Robin’s voice. Scarecrow was undoubtedly the most worrisome of the current cabinet of killers locked up in Blackgate. Riddler was… well… Riddler. Jason could think of better ways to spend his Halloween than collecting eight-thousand booby-trapped question marks.

“Nope. Tetch and Jones.”

“Mad Hatter and Croc?” Robin scowled as he started transferring the data from the PDA. Apparently, the new Robin was channeling Batman’s old expressions. “Says here that Croc clawed and bit his way to freedom. Killed about two dozen guards, too.”

“Twenty-six that we can confirm,” Cash said sourly. “Search teams are still finding bits and pieces, but that window he escaped through faced the Bay. He could be anywhere between here and Blüd, for all I know.” For a moment, Cash looked about twenty years older. Perhaps the post of Gotham City police commissioner really was cursed. It hadn’t been very kind on Gordon either. “Look, Robin, I can’t believe I am saying this, but what worries me isn’t Croc. It’s Tetch.”

“How so?”

“Someone hacked the door lock and let him out.”

That prompted a flat ‘what’ from both Boy Wonder and Oracle. Over the comm line back to the Clock Tower, Jason could hear Barbara typing away furiously, no doubt hacking into Blackgate’s security main frame. If there was any trace of who had been crazy enough to free the Mad Hatter, Barbara would find them.

“Whoever it was also provided transport,” Cash finally continued. “They had a GCPD patrol car waiting for him. Apparently, someone at the gates forgot that ALL cars need to be checked before leaving the facility. Even GCPD ones.”

“Forgot or ignored,” Robin corrected. “I know Gordon did his best to clean up the force and you both did a good job, but there’s always a black sheep in the family.” He handed the PDA back to Cash. “So, that’s it for tonight? No one threatening to poison Gotham’s blood banks or detonate chemical bombs over Gotham?”

“Not that we know of. There is one more thing, though. Check case file 16-04-48-35.”

“That’s an assault or mugging all the way back in April,” Oracle wondered out loud and Robin was more than happy to finish her trail of thought.

“Six months old case and we’re only hearing about it now?”

“Repeat offender,” Cash clarified. “Also we weren’t sure if it might be one of you guys.”

For a second, Jason could practically hear Oracle’s fingers freeze above the keyboard. The glance the replacement stole at him from across the street spoke volumes. He swallowed the sigh that threatened to worm its way up his throat and shook his head instead. Of course he was the black sheep of this dysfunctional family. He always had been.

“Woah…” Atop the GCPD roof, Robin looked back and forth between Cash and the data downloaded from the PDA as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes. “Fear gas? Someone’s going around using the stuff and you didn’t think to tell us?”

“I blame B’s bad information sharing policies,” Jason said sourly. “They were bound to come back to bite us in the ass sooner or later.” At last, Oracle forwarded the files to him and he studied the data carefully as it scrolled by on his helmet. “Blow darts filled with down-graded fear gas… ouch.”

“I know you would never use this stuff,” the commissioner assured Robin, “but are you sure Red Hood—“

“No.” Robin’s reply was as loud as it was sharp and Jason found himself following the conversation with renewed curiosity. Had that been appall in his voice? “No, he wouldn’t. Trust me, Cash. He wouldn’t.”

“What about Azrael?” Barbara’s voice sounded only slightly less angered, but the steel was still there. Apparently, everyone was really desperately trying to tell themselves that they were not working together with the man who had tried to help a well-known psychopath drown the entire east coast in fear toxin.

 _Or maybe they just genuinely believe that you are no longer him_ , not-Robin chirped inside his head. It was a pleasant thought, but Jason pushed it down together with Joker’s mocking laughter. False hope was worse than no hope. It was better to be a pessimist.

“Azrael never even made it to Blackgate, right?” Robin finally asked. “And he made it pretty clear he would not play by any rules whatsoever, so my money’s on him.”

“Well, whoever it is, he’s got Gotham’s crooks pretty damn spooked, and some of our guys, too,” Cash explained. Most of the gassed guys we’ve arrested barely remember anything after the fact. Last guy did though. Ricky ‘Loose Lips’ LeBlanc. One of Penguin’s old school guys. Said whatever attacked him looked like a nightmarish, flaming cape, Salvador Dali version of Batman when he dangled him off a rooftop eleven years ago.” Cash’s radio cracked loudly, announcing an attempted homicide on the corner of Pier Street and Blackrock Road. In the five seconds that it took Cash to turn and answer the call, Robin had already grappled off the building and back into the shadows where Jason was lurking.

_Definitely channeling not-dead-Bruce._

“So, one more vigilante in the mix and only two Blackgate escapees. Does seem too good to be true, doesn’t it,” Jason muttered through the hood while checking his guns once more. They had all expected some full-out crisis, to the point where Oracle had made it clear that anyone going off comms for more than five minutes, including Nightwing in Blüdhaven and Red Hood with his frequent disappearing acts, would be in for an immediate exfil by the rest of the team. “I’m not buying it.”

“Cash wouldn’t hold out on us.” And yet he had only barely, teeth-clenchingly told them about the guy running around dousing thugs in fear gas. Jason watched as Robin tapped away on his gauntlets and transferred the data to the shared network. As Cash had explained, Crocs trail had gone cold the moment he had hit the sea. The cop car carrying Tetch had disappeared near My Alibi in the Coventry, thanks to a street full of busted CCTV cameras. _Conveniently_ busted CCTV cameras, one could almost say. He was just about to ask Oracle for footage from the surrounding cameras when Barbara’s voice came loud and clear through the comms.

“Bad news, boys. Whoever busted Tetch out knew what they were doing. Tracing that hack is relay hell. It’s going to take a while.” The displeasure was obvious in her voice and Jason couldn’t help chuckle as he pictured her annoyed frown. Whoever had been responsible was in for a world of hurt. “Also, they EMP’ed the entire block surrounding My Alibi, so don’t even think about asking for footage from that area.”

“So, what’s it like being married to an omniscient, clairvoyant genius with photographic memory?” Jason asked, glad to steer the topic away from mystery vigilantes with dubious methods and intentions.

“Like being hooked up to a walking, talking lie detector 24-7,” Robin answered. “If you close your eyes and think of Gotham while ditching any and all sentiments of privacy, it’s even occasionally manageable.” The replacement’s grin widened with every single word of protest from Barbara that filtered through the comms. Under the hood, Jason grinned back. As awful as patrolling with Robin was, mostly because of the frequent admonishments regarding the bat clan’s no kill policy and the constant feeling of being watched and studied like a defused bomb that may or may not have hidden trip wires, the kid had a good sense of humor and Barbara was simply too easy to troll. “Well, our fear gas vigilante seems to stick to bad guys only, so let’s leave him for last. So, who do you want? Croc or Jervis?”

“Croc. Definitely Croc.” It was a no-brainer. Every time Bats had apprehended the son of a bitch, Tetch had played some kind of mind-altering hypnosis trick on him. As much as Jason hated to admit defeat, he knew when to fold them. Whatever Tetch was going to pull out of his brain on his trips to Wonderland was not going to be pretty. At best it would be something from his childhood. At worst, Joker. Or the Arkham Knight. “Oracle, you’ve got an eye on the parade in Bleake, right?”

“Both eyes. And that’s exactly where I’ll keep them. God forbid I’d invade either of you boys’ _privacy._ ”

 _Zing._ Jason’s grin grew as the replacement winced ever so slightly. “Well, someone will be sleeping on the couch in the morning, huh?”

“Possibly. Now scram, both of you. There’s a man-eating crocodile man and a deranged, cosplaying mad scientist on the loose.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He waited for Robin to grapple up to another roof and glide off into the shadows before bringing up the city map on his helmet. Gotham was surrounded by water. Cash was right. Croc could be anywhere by now. “Now, where would I be if I were a giant, man-eating reptile?”

“The local freak show,” Barbara suggested, but he tuned her out. According to the reports from Blackgate, Croc had killed more than a dozen guards, but he had also taken more than a dozen high-powered rounds. Torso, neck, legs. Even with his regenerative abilities, it was bound to hurt.

“If you’ve just escaped from a prison cell within an inch of your life and you’re starved and wounded, you don’t want to be anywhere near anything or anyone that might want to take you back there, so no to the freak show. Or any other public places for that matter. They haven’t found all pieces of the guards, so chances are he held onto some of them for food. The reports also suggest that he’s highly territorial, making dens for himself where he takes his kills and rests when he’s done eating. He’s going to be somewhere dank, dark and desolate.”

“Gotham sewers?”

“Too small,” Jason objected. “If he’s injured he’ll need room to maneuver and according to the latest data we have he’d barely fit in there anymore. It’s probably why he escaped through a window instead. My gut says he’s sticking to the shore.”

This time, Oracle did not suggest anything. This time, the silence stretched on and on, while he scanned the city map for possible options. It was Halloween and even though the main action was in Chinatown, there would still be too much activity all around the other islands and even the mainland shore. There were only three places he could think of that would give Waylon Jones enough undisturbed hiding places. “Let’s rule out Arkham Island, because anyone who’s ever been locked up there would sooner shoot themselves in the foot than go back.” _Unless it’s to plant C4 all over your cell and blow it to hell_ , Jason thought as he crossed the island off his list. Truth was he hoped Croc wasn’t there. It was quite possibly the last place he wanted to be tonight. “Also, too many crazy Ivy plants.”

“Jason—“

“Field names, Oracle. I’m going to Arkham City.” He knew where this conversation was headed, and he was not in the mood for it. He knew the questions that were on her mind right now. _Is that what you did, after you escaped from Joker? Is that how you felt? Do you want to talk about it?_ As he crossed Mercy Bridge, he could have sworn he had seen an old CRT TV nestled against the main column beneath a hundred dead birds. He knew, from pure observation, that both Robin and Nightwing avoided Mercy Bridge like the plague, even to this day. He also knew that nearly every conversation he had with Barbara and Dick was inevitably heading into the direction of a full-blown intervention.

Kingston and Grand Avenue were next, passing by beneath his feet in flashes of asphalt grey and pumpkin orange. Behind the abandoned orphanage, a drug dealer was busy selling his goods to a girl who looked way too young to be out on the streets at ten. One shot to the hand and a good kick to the head later, the white powder and its owner were sprawled across the floor and the girl had darted off into the nearest alley.

“Call it in, Oracle. 10-43 behind Cyrus Pinkney Orphanage.”

“Ambulance or hearse?”

“Ambulance.” The word tasted rotten in his mouth. Any piece of trash that sold drugs to kids wasn’t worth the air they breathed, as far as he was concerned, but tonight was not the night. Not when Oracle was monitoring his every step. There were other fish to fry and he had promised to stick to non-lethal action when working with Robin. Perhaps that was another reason why he had chosen to go after Croc. Chances were he would be able to pump a full clip into him and still come out without breaking the bat clan rules. He had a feeling he was desperately going to need to punch someone before the night was over and Killer Croc was as acceptable a target as one could find.

Beyond Mainland Bridge, Arkham City waited abandoned and desolate, a ruin of what had once been Gotham’s oldest four districts. Faded signs and posters declaring the site a development project of Wayne Enterprises were plastered all over the walls. Of course, ever since Batman’s unmasking, Wayne Enterprises had had much bigger issues than re-working Old Gotham. Lawsuits, plummeting shares and mass worker exodus were not even beginning to describe it. No wonder Lucius had gotten away with giving a rookie like Jason a job in the company. WE’s days at the top of the ‘places you want to work in list’ were over. He eyed the turret atop the wall with careful suspicion and took cover behind the nearest support pillar of the bridge before firing two well-aimed shots.

Nothing.

He scanned the turret for damage. As expected, the bullets had done no serious harm. Still, given everything he knew about the place, even this small amount of fire should have triggered the self-defense. “Guess this place really is deader than disco.”

“Not entirely,” Oracle objected. “Bruce had the turrets shut off, but there are motion sensors around the entire wall, with an alarm that goes straight to GCPD.”

“An alarm that I just triggered, didn’t I?”

“Would have, if you didn’t have little old me poking into your privacy and disabling it just for you.”

Under the mask, Jason rolled his eyes. “You’re never gonna let either of us live this down, are you?” His grapple connected with a quiet clank before pulling him up to the top of the wall. Beyond the steel-concrete-barbwire monstrosity, Arkham City was a ghost town of crumbling buildings and streets. He glanced past Solomon Wanye courthouse at the ruins of what had once been Park Row and shook his head. “Damn. To think I grew up here… Alright, Croc hunt. Open sea.”

With a deep breath, Jason pounced off the wall onto the nearest building and headed for the Amusement Mile. The earthquake had left it unstable even before Protocol 10 and by now the asphalt creaked suspiciously under his toes. It was the only sound outside of the waves crashing against the half-submerged buildings and highways beneath his feet. Even through the tactical vision mode of his helmet, the city looked empty. “Someone cleaned up pretty well…”

It had been an off-hand remark, muttered under his breath as he went along the shore line, but Oracle’s voice came through the comms loud and clear. “GCPD spent the better part of four months collecting corpses from Arkham City. We’re talking dozens of cops and four diving squads. I’d be surprised if they missed anyone.”

“Actually, they did.” His patrol of the Amusement Mile was almost over when he spotted it. The outline of the skeleton was weak against the material of the boat, but it was there. He landed with a quiet thud and switched back to normal vision. “There’s a body in this boat. Too small to be Croc, but I’ll check anyway.”

Finding the trap door was not a problem. Opening it was a different matter. As the thunder rumbled in the distance and his muscles strained to pry open the rusty metal, the nerve damage in his shoulders piped up with a vengeance and he bit his lip to suppress the curse that wanted to come with it. Cursing in pain would only mean more questions from Barb and the last thing he needed was for her to fret over his injuries and try to ground him.

Inside the boat, the air was stale and heavy. Empty crates sat in the shelves. They looked familiar, but he couldn’t place them. On the other side of the long, low hallway, a decomposing body sat on a lonely chair, forgotten by the world around it. “Well, whoever it was, he’s still in one piece, so no Croc—“

His gaze froze over the invoice nailed to the nearest pillar. _F.A.D. Dr. J. Crane_.

“I’ll be damned…” He ripped the paper off the wall and studied it closely. Apparently, the shipment had consisted of several insect crates, full of live fear bugs. _So this is where the bastard had been hiding_ … “Oracle, I just found what looks like Crane’s mobile fear gas lab. Send a tip to GCPD for me, will ya?”

“Already done.” Her voice was tense over the comms. “Any sign of Croc?”

“No, but I still have the entire Industrial District to check,” Jason said as he ditched the paper and climbed back out of the cramped boat.

“You don’t want to do that.”

“Oh?” That reply had come way too fast. Something was up. He could feel it in his gut. “Why not?”

“I can get a satellite in position, do an infrared area sweep. It will save you a lot of trouble.”

“Sure, but I’d also miss out on all the _lovely_ clown face deco Joker put up around this place.” This time, it was Barbara’s turn freeze in silence. Jason shook his head as he grappled past the abandoned factories and warehouses, up the rusty ferris wheel, and switched vision modes once more to survey the remaining shore line. It did not necessarily help with the search, but red beat green-and-purple any day as far as he was concerned. “I appreciate the thought, Oracle, but I am not made of glass.”

“I wasn’t implying—“

“Yes, you fucking were!” He wasn’t sure where the fury had come from, but it was a welcome change from the feeling of dread that had been settling in his gut ever since he had grappled up the first crane into the Industrial District only to nearly land face first in a creepy, eyeless, man-sized baby clown face. “Do I want to be here? No. Am I going to run home crying like a little girl? No. So shut the fuck up and let me do my job. I don’t need you baby-sitting me!”

“I wasn’t—“

“JUST SHUT UP ALREADY!!”

The comm. link went offline almost the instant he hit the switch. He had half a mind to turn off his tracker as well.

 _Because that went so well, last time,_ not-Robin reminded him against the background of Joker’s rising laughter. His stomach nearly turned at the memory.

“I can do this.” He could. He really could. Joker may have ruled this part of town two years ago. He might have lived here. He might have imprisoned and tortured people here. But he was gone. Everyone in this place was gone. An abandoned ruin. Empty. Potentially booby-trapped, but then again he wasn’t about to go sightseeing. “Check the shore line and the canals. Find the man-eating crocodile. I can do this.”

For what it was worth, the Industrial Mile did not have half as much shoreline as the Amusement Mile. He double and triple-checked each wall both with and without the help of his electronics. When he still came up empty, Jason grappled back up to the gargoyles by the Amusement Mile’s GCPD building. Just a few feet below, a broken bat symbol light stared up lonely into the hammering rain.

_So much for Arkham City._

He flipped the hood open and retrieved a cigarette and lighter from the inside of his hoodie. A bad habit, one of the many Bruce had tried to weed out, but just like any ill weed it sprang up again and again. Bruce’s main argument had always been the negative effect it would have on his performance in combat, which seemed kind of ridiculous given that straight up fist fights had been just about the only discipline in which he had beaten golden boy Dick Grayson. Dick, Barb and Alfred had always argued that it would kill him young, which seemed kind of ridiculous given that life appeared determined to lead him down a path of murder and death regardless of what he did. Come to think of it, the only one who had not chewed him out for smoking was the replacement. Kid was weird like that. He stubbed the cig out half-finished and flipped his helmet back down into position.

“Red Hood to Robin. Do you read me?”

“Loud and clear.” If the Replacement had heard about what had happened – and Jason couldn’t possibly imagine that he hadn’t – he was giving no indication of it.

“Any leads on Tetch?”

“Too many,” Robin muttered with obvious frustration. “I’ve got about two dozen foot prints here that could have potentially been his and apparently My Alibi is hosting a costume contest tonight. Guess the theme.”

“Alice in Wonderland.” Just their fucking luck. Most likely, the place was already crawling with blonde girls in blue and white outfits. And Cheshire Cats. And Mad Hatters. “Well, good luck searching for the needle in the haystack.”

“Thanks. Any news on Croc?”

“Not in Arkham City. Gonna head for Seagate. Hopefully he’s there. If not… Arkham.”

For a few seconds, only the waves and sea gulls kept him company. If he didn’t know better, the replacement was probably trying to come up with ways to talk him out of going to Arkham that would not light another fuse.

“And how exactly are you planning to get from Arkham City to Seagate? Grapnel gun won’t exactly cover that distance.”

Jason hated to admit it, but the replacement was right. Thankfully, improvisation had always been part of the Robin curriculum. “Gliding from the top of Wonder Tower would.”

“You don’t have a cape.”

“No, but I have banners galore.” That much was true. Riddler, Two-Face, Penguin, Joker – they had all loved to plaster there insignia everywhere. It took him a while to find one that would to the job well enough for a temporary glide, but at least it wasn’t one of Joker’s. Through the slight static of the comm. line, Robin’s chuckle almost cracked.

“You’re completely insane, Hood.”

“Did anyone ever doubt that?” He slipped into the subway system through the entrance near the steel mill and made his way into the belly of the beast. Wonder City. The Lazarus pit. He remembered the few encounters he had had with Ra’s during his time as Robin and none of them were pleasant memories. Thank god Joker hadn’t gotten his hand on the pit.

He was almost at the base of Wonder Tower when Robin’s voice came through the comm once more. “Hood, there’s something you should know about Seagate.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “What now? Another secret base of Joker’s?”

“Base, no, but he did lure Batgirl and me there back in February 2012, to kill us both and give our heads to Bruce on a silver platter.”

_February 2012…_

His mind fumbled for the relevant time frame. After the brand. Before the Knight’s first kill. Somewhere along the days when Joker had started pumping him full of drugs and breaking out the cattle prod, then leaving him to be beaten up and tortured by thugs dressed as Batman and Robin. Of course, that was how he was seeing it now. Back then, in between the paralytics, the hallucinogens and the adrenaline and god knows what else, it had not been a costume party to him. It had been real Batman and real Robin 3.0 deciding that he was less than nothing.

“Well, at least that explains why he wasn’t around all the time,” Jason muttered under his breath as he climbed the elevator shaft up to the observation deck and pushed the memories back into the dark corner they belonged to. “I hope you cleared the place out good.”

“I think so. Still, please be careful. Just in case we missed any traps.”

“Copy that.”

By the time he reached the observation deck, the stinging in his shoulders had turned from pins and needles to a serrated knife. He fastened the banner around his neck and winced as it lined up perfectly with the wire scar circling it. This was going to be painful, but he didn’t have time to waste. Any minute that passed was another chance for Croc to recover and move somewhere better hidden. In the distance, Seagate practically mocked him to dare jumping off that railing.

Jason Todd had never backed down from a dare.

***

In the end, Red Hood barely avoided a dive into the black waters of the Bay as he shot his grappling hook at the nearest railing and pulled himself out of one last, meager dive. In some way, gliding was like riding a bicycle – once learned, it was a skill that may atrophy, but never fully disappear. Unfortunately, the same could not be said about the makeshift nature of his cape, and by the time he finally had solid ground beneath his feet again, the repurposed banner had nearly come off. As he watched it flutter off onto the waves and the constricting pressure against the scar around his neck finally loosened, Jason couldn’t suppress the relieved sigh that escaped his lips in between gulps of cold air. Granted, it was Gotham air, so it always smelled just slightly rotten, but it was air. And air was life. Not even the hammering rain could spoil it. He aimed for the top of the main tent and took a minute to survey his surroundings.

If Arkham City had been a ghost town, Seagate Amusement Park was a downed wreck. Edward Burke had obviously gone through a lot of trouble trying to turn the old oil rig into a place of wonder for his little daughter, but in the end, nothing good had come of it. Katie Burke had died. Edward Burke had died. And Jack White had nearly killed Batgirl and Robin. All throughout the park, Jason could see the path of destruction left behind by Joker’s crew and Barb and the replacement trying to stop him. It was never that noticeable in the city, where someone usually bothered to rebuild the damage sooner or later, but out here, where no one cared, the wounds of their clash were clear as daylight, even through a curtain of rain. Time and the elements had done the rest, fading colors and reducing iron to rust. Ivy’s plants had nearly swallowed the Asylum. Somehow, Jason had a feeling Gotham Bay would soon swallow the park.

He made his was counter-clockwise around the edges of the park, careful to switch between tactical lenses and normal sight. For all the advantages that Batman’s x-ray vision afforded, it could never replace a pair of careful, naked eyes.

In this case, the eyes of a master sniper.

The cuts and scratches by the ship’s hull were subtle at first sight, blending in with the damage done by storms and the sea. However, it was the pattern that got him. The deep, parallel cuts that started strong, then faded out, drawing closer. Someone, or something, had clawed its way into the ship. Just six feet above the waves, potentially less at high tide, a crude hole had been broken into the hull.

“Jackpot!”

The inside of the ship was no less creepy than the outside – abandoned, battered and drenched, floor, wall and ceiling. Dark, dank and desolate had definitely been the right call and he zipped his hood shut as the chill started to seep through his Kevlar and skin and into his bones. All around him, angler fish replica and other creepy creatures of the deep sea stared at him from behind thick bull’s eye tanks. Either Joker had really cranked up the creep factor of this girl’s drawings, or she had been one very, very disturbed child.

“Alright Croc.” The lenses came back online with a soft click. The blood was diluted on the wet floor, but it was definitely there. “Come out so I can kick your ass.” Beneath his feet, bent steel slowly turned to broken wood as he descended deeper into the belly of the proverbial beast. Nothing showed up on his scans, yet on the back of his neck, his hairs stood up like soldiers on parade. Something was stalking him. He took the safety off his guns and dropped into what had obviously been supposed to be the ship’s main attraction at some point.

The mechanical kraken was long dead, but that didn’t make it look any less creepy. Underneath its body, the scattered leftovers of a human ribcage littered the floor. That much he had expected. What he had not expected was to see the outline of a full, almost intact female skeleton inside the smaller ship wrapped in the kraken’s winding tentacles.

“Oracle, correct me if I’m wrong, but there are no female guards at Blackgate, right?” Through the freshly re-opened comm link, static mocked him back. Of course. Chances were Barb still pissed off at him for yelling at her earlier. Or something was up with Tetch and Robin. Still, he brought up the feed from her tracker almost instinctively. From what he could tell, she was still in the Clock Tower and she was still alive. Given everything that life had thrown at him, Jason considered that enough of a blessing to move on.

The first thing he noticed upon grappling in was the lack of blood splattered over the wall. The second was the stench of rotten fish, but the absence of rotten flesh. He brought up the crime scene analyzer of his tactical mode and watched as the familiar four-by-four inch grid unfolded over the scenery. “Full rigor mortis, so definitely dead for at least a couple of hours.” He circled the body slowly, careful not to step onto any of the clawed prints around it. Judging by the indentation in the floor and the blood near her head, it was the fall from the upper level of the ship that had killed her. He had planned to scan all the way from her hair to her toes, but he never made it past her throat.

The cut was small, almost unnoticeable, and it had been sewn up expertly, but the placing was very clear. Jason switched to a deeper tissue scanner only to find his suspicion confirmed. Someone had cut out her vocal cords. _Mutilated and killed by a psycho, then munched on by a humanoid crocodile. This fucking city…_

“Jason, do you read me?”

“Field names, Or—“ He barely managed to dodge the scaled mass of flesh that had lunged for him. Within an instant, his guns were out, trigger fingers ready, as he rolled out of the ship and into the open space in front of the kraken. From the den with the dead woman, Croc snarled back at him, a low growl with a rhythm and melody that indicated actual speech, but was too garbled to make out any distinct words. Blackgate’s reports had not mentioned that his mutation and the insanity that came with it, had progressed that far. Still, Jason doubted it was stimulating conversation to begin with. “You know what, never mind. Call you back in five.”

This time, he saw Croc coming and Jason jumped and fired almost instinctively, only to find his target doing zick-zack dodges that should have been quite impossible for something of that size and mass. What little bullets hit their mark bounced off the green scales almost mockingly. A massive, clawed paw nearly caught him square in the face and he ducked just in time to fire another half a dozen bullets into the softer, lighter stomach. This time, there was an anguished cry as hot blood sprayed from the wounds. A spiked tail whirled into the direction of his head. _Up_ , not-Robin yelled in the back of his mind and his left hand, extended almost automatically. Two seconds later, Red Hood was perched on the scaffolding that should have held the lights.

“Alright then. You want more power, you get it.” The guns shifted and clicked into their sniper rifle configuration almost silently. For anyone else, it might have been overkill. For Waylon Jones, it might just be enough.

_Kneecaps and shoulders. Kneecaps and shoulders. Kneecaps and shoulders._

It had become his mantra every time he was on patrol with the replacement – which was rare enough – but they had insisted. Part of him wanted nothing more than to aim for the head and get it over with, but he doubted tonight was the night to push his luck. He had almost had the shot lined up perfectly when a sudden shadow of movement drew his attention to the other side of the room. His Robin training kicked in immediately and within an instant he was perched on a gargoyle in one of the corners of the room. They were not alone.

His first scan of the room was with the lenses on. The second without. Both came up empty. No more Croc. No more mystery shadow. A string of curses rattled off his tongue.

“Red Hood, can you hear me?! Please come in if you can!”

“Loud and clear, Oracle.” He wanted to be angry with her. For interrupting at the worst possible time, twice. For breaking protocol, once. But his anger was already fading. Slowly, he disassembled the rifle back into its two single guns. He still felt like he wasn’t alone, but then again, with Joker’s persistent laughter in the back of his head, when was he ever? “Where’s the fire?”

“We’ve got a major crisis in Chinatown.” Behind the words, Jason could hear her frantic typing, no doubt bringing up police reports, gathering camera footage and arranging all kinds of information that he could only guess at. “No one knows exactly how, but people at the parade are dropping like flies. No casualties so far. According to the EMTs it’s more like a deep sleep or meditation, but none of the affected patients respond to anything – pain stimuli, adrenaline, you name it. We’re talking almost a thousand people here that just… dropped.”

“Almost a thousand out of 6.3 million,” Jason mused. “Could be _much_ worse, but I see your point. I’m on my way.” He was already out of the ship and on his way back to the mainland when Barbara’s voice burst through the comms again.

“Hood there’s something else, and I’m sorry I’m dumping all of this on you, but—“

“But what?”

“I can’t get a hold of Robin.”

Dread settled in Jason’s gut at the worried tone in her voice. Barb did not worry easily. Neither did Oracle. “How long has he been offline?”

“Twenty-four minutes.”

“What?” That stopped him dead in his tracks, just shy of the park’s front gate. “That’s nearly five times what we agreed on.” Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. It was one thing for Jason to go off comms. That, people had eventually gotten used to even in his time as Robin. But Tim… He tapped away at the sensors on his helmet and breathed a quick sigh when he found the replacement’s tracker still transmitting steady, although oddly erratic vitals.  “Screw Bleake, I’m on my way to the Coventry.”

“Red Hood—“

“Don’t even argue with me, Oracle!” They were not having this argument. Not now as he was rushing through the residential neighborhoods of Gotham East, noticing, but blatantly ignoring the unusually high number of red and blue flashes on the suburban streets. Not now when one of their own was clearly in trouble. _So much for too good to be true…_

“Keep your eyes on Bleake. I’ll go find him. I promise.”


	2. Devil And The Deep Blue Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason had thought checking on an off comms Robin would be faster and less painful than solving the mystery behind a sudden epidemic. He was wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: There is a club called "My Alibi" in Batman Arkham Origins. It's a strip club with a techno soundtrack that is quite appropriately called "Skank Tank".  
> Also, proof-read this at 2.30 am. Will spell-check again later, so sorry for any errors.

Beneath his feet, Gotham had gone to hell.

It was eleven o’clock on October 31st, Halloween in Gotham City. By all rights, the city should have been a mess of different shades of orange and black. There should have been the last straggling parents coming back home with their kids from a long, successful trick or treat tour. There should have been people his age going out dressed in practically nothing to get hammered and laid. There should have been sounds of young and innocent laughter over scare chords.

Instead, the streets were brightly lit in red and blue. Sometimes they were police cars. More often than not, they were ambulances. Jason caught bits and pieces, little glimpses of them as he raced across the roof tops. _Grapple, jump, roll, run, grapple, jump, roll, run, grapple, jump, roll, run_. Sometimes they were carrying half-naked teenagers, but more often than not, it was the tiny body of some little glittery fairy or a boy in an overpriced, made-in-China ghost costume from Walmart being strapped to a gurney, while frantic parents had to be restrained by paramedics who were clearly on the edge as well. But all he could hear were sirens and screaming and crying and ambulances speeding off, tires screeching and an endless onslaught of new calls through the direct hack into the police dispatch Barbara had so graciously provided to him months ago. Like a broken record the same numbers and instructions repeated over and over.

From the neo-rich, seaside-view suburbs of East Gotham right up to the door of the GCPD station in Burnley, Gotham City was trenched in glaring red-and-blue.

This was going to be a fucking pain in the ass.

Of course, the Coventry was no exception to the madness and My Alibi was practically swarmed by cop cars. He stopped on the nearest roof and surveyed his surroundings. The street was packed with underdressed Alices and Red Queens, cheap Mad Hatters and the occasional door mouse and caterpillar. Most of them looked more annoyed with the presence of the police than grateful for the presence of the paramedics. Given the kind of deals that usual went on in the place, he wasn’t surprised. Chances were good that there were at least half a dozen drug dealers making a hasty retreat through the back alleys right now. Not for the first time did Jason wonder what had happened to his priorities over the last couple of months that he pushed the thought of putting the fuckers down onto the back burner.

Robin’s signal was still steady, but his vitals were worrying. They were far too erratic for someone who had been stationary for the last eight minutes. Also, they were by the edge of the shoreline behind the Mendo Soaps facility. A dead end and all around shady place at the best of times. The first time twelve-year-old Jason had come there to pawn off some car parts to a new buyer, he had nearly ended up robbed, knifed and left for dead.

“Rooftops all the way, then…”

He made his way to the old factory carefully. There were cameras everywhere. Part of him was tempted to put a bullet through the cam facing the shore, but he decided against it. If things were going to go south, at least Oracle and Nightwing would have something to go on. Not like back then. Not like when he had been fifteen. He was never going through that again. With a quick sigh, Jason dropped down from his perch around the corner of the signal.

He found him cowering by the wall. That in and of itself was strange and alarming enough. The cape was hanging limp against his hunched back, his shoulders were twitching.

“Hey, replacement!” There was no edge to his voice, but his right hand curled around the flash bang grenade instinctively. Even though nothing unusual showed up on his tactical vision, something was definitely off. He could feel it in his gut. Through the audio filters of his helmet, he could hear silent muttering, and even though Jason wasn’t trying to be particularly stealthy, the replacement had not shown the slightest hint that he had noticed someone approaching him. This was either a very good trap or very sloppy patrolling. “Hood to Robin! Anybody home?”

“Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen—“

“Oh, fuck.” He lunged forward on pure instinct, grabbing the caped bird by the shoulder and turning him around only to catch a shuriken to the helmet. The swing had been wide and sloppy, yet also full of raw energy and it had left a clear scratch in the red visor. In place of a black domino, a white rabbit mask peered at him in the dark.

“Ten. Nine. Eight.” The second swing missed and Jason took the opportunity to plant his boot in the Kevlar-clad stomach of the third Robin. Instead of fighting back, the replacement ran. Rage bubbled up inside him. If he was going to have to chase the fucker across the Coventry, this would be the last time they’d patrol together.

The countdown had reached two by the time they were finally done tackling. On an ordinary night, it might have been a fair match. Jason was stronger, but Tim was quicker and his moves were just ever so slightly different from what Dick and Jason had been taught. They had never actually trained together – he had too many memories of hallucinogen-induced Robin mirror matches to be even remotely comfortable with the idea and he doubted Barbara would consider the impressive inheritance sufficient compensation for young widowhood – but somehow he had always assumed that the inevitable brawl between them would be a long, bloody match full of broken bones and screamed curses, brought on by some sort of disagreement about Bruce, Bruce’s rules, Bruce’s methods, Bruce’s responsibilities in what had happened to both of them or something else related to the fucking bastard whose fortune they had split. Instead, it ended in seconds with Robin face-down in the dirt, one arm pinned to the side by Jason’s left foot, the other wrenched behind his back in a hold that was a quarter inch away from dislocating the shoulder.

“One. Zero.”

Suddenly, the fury was back. It was if someone had flipped a switch inside Tim and the change it brought on made Jason shudder from head to toe. It took all he had to keep the arm steady enough to prevent it from breaking. Beneath him, Robin shook and twitched and writhed like a caged animal, desperately trying to break free. The scream that tore from his throat barely sounded human.

This wasn’t Robin, who could balance himself to be perfectly unmoving on a slippery wet fire escape. This wasn’t Tim, who was so good at channeling his inner Bruce that his mere zen quiet could even make Dick’s often misguided enthusiasm taper off after a couple of minutes.

“Oh, fuck you, Jervis!”

His fingertips had barely grazed the mask when the current rushed through him, cramping up his muscles just long enough for the mad bird to break free and flip their positions and for a moment there were walls around him. Tiled walls all around him. An inch of water on the floor. A clown’s laughter echoing off the ceiling. Two caped figures readying the cattle prod for another sting, another zap.

It was the sound of something heavy dropping into water that pulled him back to reality. The first thing he noticed was that he was on his back. The second was that the replacement was nowhere to be found, even though his tracker signal showed him as being right beside Jason. A meter and a half to the left, six meters down. Six meters and counting.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Only a couple of feet below the surface, Gotham Bay was black as pitch and cold as ice around him. Like pins and needles the cold stabbed through his clothes and into his skin. According to his tactical vision, he was diving after a limp skeleton and that didn’t make it any better. The relief that flooded him as his hands grasped at a fully intact arm was unreal. Barb was gonna murder him if this idiot croaked. With the dead weight of Robin 3.0 draped over his shoulders, Red Hood pushed back towards the surface.

***

By the time they had reached his safehouse, Jason was shivering from head to toe. In between the freezing cold of Gotham Bay, the slightly warmer rain and the effort of having to haul one-hundred and eighty-nine pounds of unconscious vigilante across the rooftops, the nerve damage in his shoulders had come back with a vengeance. And Jason knew exactly what to take it out on.

The rabbit mask came off together with the cowl and tiny bits of skin, but he couldn’t have cared less. He turned the tap to what would normally be best described as lukewarm and sat by the tub, watching the water level rise out of the corner of his eyes as he ripped the little boxes with the wiring out of the fluffy white ears and held them up against the bathroom light. Someone had tried to scratch the markers off, but he would have recognized that symbol anywhere.

“Barb, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I might have made a terrible mistake with inventing that optic deflection armor.”

“Oh thank god you are alright!” The relieved sigh underneath the words was loud enough to send his audio filters crackling. “Is Tim okay? I’ve got both your trackers at your apartment in the Diamond District.”

“My safehouse,” Jason corrected as he put the mask and its electronics on the counter above the sink and shut off the tap. “Bird’s alive and breathing. Probably will be kicking in a few seconds, too.” Getting the replacement out of his suit was easier than it should have been. The vest latched together in the same places as his had long ago. The boots were the same and so were the gauntlets. Within a minute, Jason had him down to his underpants and slung over his shoulders. Without the suit, Robin looked terrifyingly defenseless and tiny. “If you hear yelling in a second, that would be the temperature shock from the bath the poor puppy’s about to take.”

But the yelling never came. He watched in mild worry as the replacement sank into the tub without as much as a single twitch. He had kept the temperature deliberately low to avoid a lethal shock, but even so, he should have shown _some_ reaction. Still, his vitals were slowly returning to acceptable ranges. “I assume you’re coming over to watch over his sorry ass?”

“Already on the road.” He could still hear her typing in the background. Probably pulling up surveillance feeds. Checking police reports. Something like—

“Did you just say you’re on the road?” That didn’t compute. Barb may have been one of the most amazing people he had ever met, but there were a few things that paraplegia just completely wrecked, no matter how badass you were. “Who’s giving you a lift?”

“A very concerned big brother who’s quite irritated that neither one of you bothered to answer his calls.”

He face-palmed against the hood and swallowed the groan that threatened to crawl out of his throat. This could not be happening. “Fuck you, Goldie, I was busy.” To his left, the replacement was still resting, unmoving. He brought his hand into the water, then up to Tim’s forehead. _Still too cold._ He shrugged out of his wet boots, ditched his gear beneath the sink and left the jacket on the laundry machine that had gathered way too much dust for his liking. Alfred would weep if he could see the place like this. “If either one of you is bringing another cake, I’ll make sure no one will ever find the fucking bodies.”

His closet was nearly empty, but it didn’t matter. He had no plans of staying. He ditched the wet clothes in the laundry basket, rubbed himself dry with the nearest towel and slipped into a fresh pair of gray pants and a new Kevlar vest before taking off the hood. The shuriken mark was just below the eye line, a deep scratch from right to left that would be impossible to remove. He would have to trash the thing once he was done synching it to his backup mask. As the program started copying data from one helmet to the other, Jason reached for one of his simple black and red sets of exercise clothes. They would most likely be too wide for the replacement, but it sure as hell beat waking up half-naked in a strange place with no memory of how you got there.

By the time Dick and Barbara arrived, he was sitting by the living room window, a cigarette in his left and the mouse of his laptop in his right. The knocking on the door forced a pained chuckle out of his throat. _How considerate of them, this time around_. He got up slowly, disarmed the security on his door and pointed to the left before they were even inside. “He’s sleeping. Bedroom’s down this way. Make yourselves at home. Again.”

Just a year ago, the look of hurt that ghosted across both their faces would have made him feel positively satisfied and vindicated. Instead, it left him hollow. There was no time for this, and he was grateful when Barbara shushed Dick before he could open his mouth to attempt some ill-fated apology. There was too much crap going on outside of this apartment. He didn’t need a lecture now.

As it had turned out, the outbreak of sudden mass unconsciousness on Bleake had only been the beginning. All around Gotham, people – most of them children, but some adults as well – were dropping like flies and no one knew why. Gotham General had hit its peak capacity of patients just a minute after his return to the safehouse. Saint Sebastian’s and Saint Joseph’s had followed suit shortly thereafter. Every hospital and doctor’s office that was even remotely equipped to deal with unconscious patients had been opened and a field hospital had been set up in the gym of Gotham U to try and stem the crisis. But the reports were still incoming. Dispatch was still calling for help, delegating squads and working on a backlog that looked anything but healthy. It wasn’t fear gas, but judging from the panicked news coverage and the reports of massive civil unrest – _read: people going ‘oh lord have mercy, sweet Jesus save me, the end is nigh’_ \- it might as well have been.

“It’s the same in Blüdhaven.” He didn’t sound tired, but there was something tense in Dick’s voice that made his eye twitch and his hand bring up the cigarette for another smoke. Dick, seemingly clad in civvies, although Jason had no doubt that there was black-and-blue spandex underneath them, sat down next to him, arm’s length away, as if he was afraid he might get punched in the face if he came too close. “You know smoking’s bad for your health, right?”

Jason nearly swallowed his cig. “Excuse me?” Maybe it was the hint of a fake smile, ‘the small-talk smile’ Jason had called it when Alfred had been teaching him how to behave at all those dreadful high-society functions a Wayne was supposed to attend. Jason had always hated that smile and it hadn’t helped that Grayson had mastered it to perfection, just like everything else. Yes, right now, he really did want to punch fucking golden boy Grayson. “I’ve survived two years with Bruce, four-hundred and forty-two fucking days with the Joker, three years with PMCs and a full year of… whatever this last year has been… and you’re trying to lecture me about the fucking evils of _smoking_?” Dick’s face fell with every word. For some strange reason, it did not make him feel any better. “Unless you’ve got something to add to the fucking crisis at hand, shut up before I kick your teeth in.”

He glued his eyes back to the screen instantly. It was the right choice, he was sure of that. Gotham – and Blüdhaven – was in the middle of a fucking crisis and he wasn’t going anywhere until it was solved. He owed it to his city. Especially after all the havoc _he_ had caused last year.

The medical reports were mostly unhelpful. What had brought on the sudden loss of consciousness was a neurotoxin that worked like a powerful sedative. If there was one blessing, it was that the traces found in everyone’s blood looked to be of the same substance. One ill, one cure. They just had to find it. He scrolled past the medical mumbo-jumbo that essentially boiled down to ‘we don’t have a fucking clue what this is and where it came from’ and focused on patient data instead. As his initial glance had suggested, most of the affected were children and the thought made his blood boil. To make it worse, the disease seemed to affect so many people, searching for a common connection felt like looking for a needle in a haystack. Whoever had done this was going to pay.

“Hey…” Next to him, Dick shifted ever so slightly. “How’s he doing?”

“Sleeping peacefully,” Barbara replied from the entrance to the hall and he took a moment to watch her roll up to join them with her laptop on her legs. “Left him a glass of water and a note to find us in the living room when he wakes up. Oh, and I took a quick blood sample, ran it against the reports we’re getting. No match.”

“Thank god for silver linings.” Dick sounded as relieved as he sounded exasperated. Jason was tangentially aware those azure eyes were on him again. “What exactly happened down there in the Coventry?”

“Jervis fucking Tetch and a blast from the past.” Jason picked up the mask and the now exposed wiring from next to his helmet and handed it over to Barbara while recounting what had happened. Immediately, her hands went to work checking for memory chips or any other kind of data relay that might give them more information. “I already tried. It’s all fried. He put the wiring in a box with optical deflection plating, too. That’s why it didn’t show up on my scanners.”

“Fucking bastard.” Against his better judgment, Jason felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. Trying to get Barbara to use the f-word had been a long-running game he had played as Robin, mostly unsuccessfully. It was a childish, petulant victory, but he was ready to take it. “Well, with any luck that EMP that fried the cameras around My Alibi didn’t fry the ones near Mendo. I’ll get the son of a bitch.”

“Well, good luck with that.” He hit ‘enter’ on the last set of search algorithms he had established to ping his helmet directly if there were any relevant news on the mass sleep case and shut off his laptop. “Feel free to make yourselves at home. I still have other fish to fry.”

“Oh, that’s right. How did it go? Did you find Croc?”

“Yes. And he found me.” The guns came first, then the ammo. He tried to ignore the disappointed glance Dick shot at him as he loaded the pistols. It reminded him way too much of his time with Bruce. He had been a disappointment then, too. Apparently, some things never changed. “I also found another mutilated body there that definitely wasn’t Croc’s doing. Someone cut some poor woman’s vocal cords out and I want to know who and why.” The grapnel gun and batclaw were next, then the grenades. “I also had a run-in with… something, while I was there.”

“Something?” Dick raised an eyebrow at that. ‘Something’ was not a satisfying answer to any question, ever. It was one of the first lessons Bruce had drilled into them.

“Might have been our mystery vigilante. Either way, I’m going back there to finish what I started. You know how to contact me.”

“Dick will keep working on our joint mass poisoning case. I’ll dig into that footage from Mendo’s,” Barbara suggested, before reaching into her pocket and handing him a remote hacking device.

“That’s the repl—Tim’s.”

“Yes, and you’ll get more use out of it than he will right now.” Somehow, even when her husband had nearly drowned himself in a brain-washed rage, Barbara still managed a reassuring smile. It would never cease to amaze Jason. Even stranger, it felt surprisingly good. “Good luck out there, Jason. And be safe.”

He was almost out the door when Dick’s clear voice reached him. “And you’re sure you don’t mind us staying in your apartment?”

Jason nearly chuckled at that. “Safehouse, Goldie. Ain’t been my apartment for almost two months.”

***

After all the chaos of Gotham’s panicked streets, Seagate was a pleasant change, even as the thunder rolled directly over his head and the pins and needles in this back and shoulder assaulted him with a vengeance. The ghost ship lay as empty and abandoned as it had been, when he left, but then again, two people had managed to sneak up on him here before, one of which had definitely been looking at him as dinner. Literally.

Unfortunately, there was no trace he could find of where Croc had gone. The blood trail led back into the sea. The corpse, on the other hand, was exactly where he remembered it being, lying flat on the cold floor, facing upwards. Jason took one last glance around to ensure that he was really alone, then brought up the crime scene grid once more.

“Contusions on wrists, ankles and jaw ...” Someone had definitely been trying to keep this woman from fighting back and judging from the wobbly lines, she had definitely tried. To his surprise, that, plus the incision where her vocal cords had been removed and the one bite Jones had taken were the only physical wounds.

However, they were not the only evidence.

The little box barely showed up in bright yellow on his scanner, a clear sign that there was something with a battery in the left front pocket of the woman’s denim pants. He removed the item carefully and turned it over in his hands. “A Dictaphone?”

Perhaps it was the fact that the device was of ye olde days when tape cassettes were still a thing and that Joker had loved old-fashioned tech. Perhaps it was the fact that he had taken it off a dead, mutilated body. He ran the technical analysis of his hood twice to ensure that there were no hidden explosives or other like-minded booby-traps, then started the audio recording feature of his sound receivers and hit the replay button. To his surprise, the damn thing came to life with a deep creaking sound that wasn’t out of place in the abandoned amusement park of horrors. It only underlined the stark contrast with the voice that greeted him. The woman that spoke had a voice like honey – dark, smooth, warm and endearingly sweet.

“My name is Melanie Eveline Rogers. I am thirty-two years, five months and fifteen days old, and this will be the last time I will use my voice.”

It was the blood-curdling scream that followed that had him look at the dead body once more. He counted twenty-eight seconds before the cry of pain suddenly vanished, replaced by frantic wheezing and a second voice that had clearly been put through a modulator. It sounded like a man, but that didn’t mean much. The Arkham Knight had spent enough time researching voice modulation software to teach Jason that it could have been anyone.

“Don’t worry, Melanie,” the voice attempted what Jason could only interpret as a gentle, comforting whisper. Instead, it came out as a croaked, rasping, entirely unnerving rattle.

“You won’t die. I will patch you up nicely and take you to a wonderful place full of joy and laughter. I will even call the police to have someone pick you up to take you home to your family and friends. Oh, they will be so happy to see you!”

Judging from the rising pitch, whoever had done this was clearly enjoying themselves way too much. Jason suppressed a shudder as his mind automatically tried to take him back to the last time he had heard someone talk like that. This was not a good time for a panic attack.

“There will be celebrations! Lots of hugging, good food, tears of joy,” the voice continued even as the wheezing in the background intensified. “So just remember how generous I was. I didn’t take your life. Only your voice. And now … Silenzio!”

The recording cut off abruptly. He rewound the tape and put the dictaphone back into her pocket. He made his way to the top of the ship from where Melanie Rogers had fallen, but he didn’t hold his breath. It had been raining for hours. There was a good chance there was no more evidence to be found.

“Oracle, send an anonymous tip to GCPD. We have a murder victim at my location. Name is Melanie Eveline Rogers, 32 years old.” Too young to die such a horrible death. Too young to be cut apart by some sick psycho while still fully awake. He hit replay on the recorded track as he grappled back down to the mainland. _Remember how generous I was_.

He would be generous, too. He had a whole damn magazine of shining bullets waiting for this bastard.

***

His next stop was the Coventry. Again. He hated going back to the place, but it was the only other field case they had. Croc was in the wind and would be until he killed again. But Tetch... Tetch they had a lead on and the fact that said lead was a knocked out Robin only put it higher on Red Hood’s priority list.

By the time he arrived, My Alibi was silent as a grave. Normally, half past midnight was when the action only really started. Somehow, seeing it empty like this, seeing all of Gotham nearly empty, felt even worse than watching the cop cars and ambulances rush along by the dozens.

He tried to recall what information they had had about Tetch. He had vanished near My Alibi, with all the CCTV cameras EMPed. That in and of itself was another thing that was worth investigating. EMPs capable of taking out an entire block worth of electronics were military-grade tech and that meant someone was supplying. Penguin was behind bars. Perhaps it was time to find out who had stepped up.

“Hey, Nightwing. Do you read me?”

“Loud and clear, Hood.” If Dick was still upset about their earlier disagreement, he didn’t show it. “What do you need?”

“How’s the weapons trade in Blüdhaven going? You know... what with the Penguin behind bars. Any new players?” He circled the club while waiting for the reply. Perhaps the CCTV cameras around My Alibi were still out of commission – Halloween 2015 had caused enormous financial damage to the city after all – but My Alibi was swimming in drug money. Surely the owner would have made certain that any police officer coming in for a routine check would see that everything was still in order and no shady business was taking place at all. Our clients are our top priority, and all that crap.

“That’s the other reason, why I’m here,” Dick finally answered through the comm. “Thugs in Blüd keep talking about someone having taken over business – Black Swan in Blüdhaven and White Swan in Gotham. I can’t get a hold of Black Swan to save my life, so I figured I’d try going for White Swan instead.”

“White Swan...” Jason snorted at the nickname. “How much do you want to bet the next one will be ‘Pink Flamingo’?”

That earned him a full-blown, no-care-in-the-world Dick Grayson laugh. “A hundred bucks, you’re on. Good luck out there, Hood.”

He cut the line, grappled down to the back entrance of the club and set to work with one of the lock picks hidden in his red hoodie. Apparently, no one had ever thought of installing an automated alarm system. Once inside, he did one thorough scan with the lenses on to identify the placements of all the cameras before going back to good old eyesight. This skank tank had enough bodily fluids all over the place to keep a forensics team of a dozen people busy for a week. The less he knew about what he was stepping into, the better. And to think he had been trying to sneak into this place once when he had been thirteen...

He blinded the camera in the upper back corridor first, careful to slip past the field of vision of the camera mounted above the back door. Whoever had designed this place clearly had never considered any of the bats coming here. All cameras on the lower floor were mounted far too low to keep track of the iron scaffolding that ran along the ceiling. Then again, this was My Alibi. In the good old days of a half-corrupt GCPD, they had not even had cameras in there. He tiptoed forward carefully, even as the rusty iron creaked suspiciously under his weight, then slipped into the manager’s office through the vent on the wall.

Password security was another keyword that seemed lost on the general populace. For once, his mind decided to drag a good memory up from the depths as his psyche. As he disabled the camera in the office and hacked into the manager’s computer, it was Barbara’s voice from her first ‘let Jason try to crack the latest encryption update’ challenge that echoed in his head. If he recalled correctly, he had done it without much effort and when he had stated his bafflement at her surprise, Barbara had grinned that irresistible computer geek smirk of hers at him.

_Jason, you are currently surrounded by the intellectual elite, so you will probably not notice this... but ninety-nine percent of all people are just plain stupid._

Clearly, My Alibi’s owner was one of the ninety-nine percent. His password was Alibi123456. The camera footage was located in a folder conveniently labeled ‘Security Cam Footage’, with no additional security. On his desktop.

_Ouch._

Apparently, the replacement had entered through the front door, strutting about the place with an assertiveness that oozed jock from every pore, yet none of the intimidation (or at least attempt thereof) that usually came with being the Batman’s sidekick. On one hand, Jason wanted to punch the guy once he woke up. On the other, he had to give credit where credit was due: If there was one night one could walk through the streets of Gotham in costume and in full gear and claim it was just a party gag, it was Halloween.

 _Or Gotham City Comic Con_ , not-Robin added, and Jason shuddered at the thought. Dick had suggested that once, when Jason had been fifteen. _Just imagine_ , Dick had explained dreamily while they had been sharing pizza at Dino’s after their monthly sparring/bonding session, _we could check out our action figures and that latest videogame they made..._ It had sounded like an invitation to a mass brawl and permanent grounding back then. It didn’t sound much saner now.

As expected, the place had been crawling with Alices and Mad Hatters. He watched as Robin made his way through the crowds, smiling easily at the girls that stopped to admire his physique and shooting ‘back off’ glares at those that got too close for comfort. Only when he found himself in front of a Mad Hatter did the mask ever break for the tiniest fraction of a second. An outside observer would never know, but Jason knew the tells – the slight stiffening of the muscles, the quick analytical gaze, the fast blink and smirk to glaze over it. Jason followed Robin’s journey downstairs, as he passed by the almost-naked dancers, heading for the private lounge. He had almost passed the corner where Jason had slipped into the vent when it happened.

The girl who was dancing was wearing two masks: a brown rabbit that went with her well-tanned skin and a white rabbit on the back of her head. _The_ white rabbit. He watched her grab Robin by the cape as he passed, turning him to her and holding him in place just long enough to drape an insanely long leg around his waist and put the rabbit hat on top of his cowl. The change was almost immediate. Robin froze as she kissed him. Two seconds later, he turned around and headed back to the stairs. On his way, two pretty blondes dressed like Alice hooked themselves around his arms.

“Oh fuck...”

Horror climbed out of the pit of his stomach and into his throat as he watched Robin draw the girls closer. Another one joined them on the stairs, a fourth near the backdoor. Two seconds later, Robin was gone. And so was Alice. Four of them.

“Hood, are you there?” _Mother of fucking Murphy..._ He frowned as Barbara’s voice filtered through his comm line. He _prayed_ that the camera at Mendo’s had been busted.

There was no way he could ever let the replacement see this footage. Heck, he wasn’t sure if he was going to let Barb see it.

“I’m here, Oracle.”

“I managed to get some shots from near Mendo’s—“

 _You fucking asshole..._ He mouthed the words silently while raising both middle fingers up at the ceiling. Was it too much to ask? One fucking break? Was that really too much? He hadn’t even shot anybody today...

“I think you need to come back and see this... preferably before he wakes up.”

“On my way.” What else was there to say? He downloaded the camera footage to the MHD in his gauntlet, then wiped the file and all its back-ups from the computer, deactivated all camera feeds and played a round of Russian roulette in the system.32 folder to be sure. This was a matter of family. No one in GCPD would ever see a single second of this. And if anyone claimed they had seen Robin at My Alibi... well, they could just blame it on spiked drinks and cheap drugs. _Works for me._

Now he just needed to get back to his safehouse in the Diamond and figure out how to explain all of this to his replacement.

For the first time, Jason wished that little blood test Barb had run on her husband had come back positive.

***

Barb and Dick were already waiting for him, perched on the black leather couch with her laptop and the rabbit mask on the coffee table, their faces two perfect masks of doom and gloom. The last time he had seen this picture, they had been watching an awful movie, after breaking and entering into his home and before serving him what was quite possibly the third-worst birthday surprise ever.

Somehow, that seemed the less painful scenario now.

This time, he accepted the invitation to sit down next to them.

On the camera feed from the northwest outside perimeter camera of Mendo Soaps, Robin was strolling along with three of the Alices still attached to his sides like a swarm of friendly octopuses. The fourth was trailing slightly behind, shivering from the cold and clearly looking quite unimpressed by his choice of locale. Jason couldn’t blame her. The Coventry was not exactly high on the list of romantic places in Gotham to give blowjobs to strangers. They rounded the corner to the west side of the facility and disappeared from the view of the camera for all of six seconds. There was another camera on the southwest corner of course, but Jason knew that one would be no good. The drainage pipes of Mendo were half a meter high and stacked on top of each other. The best anyone would get would be a glimpse of red Kevlar and blonde hair.

A hand appeared back in frame at the lower corner of the building, scratching at the concrete for just a second before disappearing from view once more. The girl who had trailed behind looked appropriately spooked, seemingly torn between staying where she was and running back to the club.

By the time she had decided, it was too late.

Robin was on her lightning fast, one hand clasped over her mouth, the other arm wrapped around her throat in a classic chokehold. Excellent application of technique. She went limp within seconds. Perfect amount of pressure. Bruce would have been satisfied.

Except that this was not Tetch or Harley or even some bottom-rank mook. This was a supposedly innocent blonde girl, dressed in the wrong outfit at the wrong time.

To his right, Dick swallowed hard. “How are we going to explain this to him?”

“I’m going to murder whoever put that hat on him,” Barbara snarled through clenched teeth. He watched her type away furiously, without any care for the keys which proved that she was not in control anymore. Babs never damaged her equipment.

Then again, this was _her husband_. Part of him was infinitely grateful that Bruce hadn’t passed on his emotional disabilities and priority issues to the rest of the family.

“I might be able to help you with that.”

He retrieved the tiny memory chip from his gauntlet and handed it over wordlessly. Of course, Barbara had the perfect attachment to hook it to the USB port. All of them had been taught by the same man, after all. Next to him, Dick and Barb tensed as they watched Robin working his way through the crowd, getting double-masked, and strolling out of the club with four Alices glued to his arms and cape. He was wondering whether Dick or Barb would be the first to voice their disgust.

It ended up being neither.

The glass shattered loudly, the mundane sound amplified by the eerie silence that clung to his safehouse. They all turned almost simultaneously, only to find Tim staring at the screen, his eyes wide in horror, one hand clasped over his mouth, the other trembling around a glass that was no longer there. Jason’s hand curled around one of his flash bangs. Dick got ready to pounce. Barb closed the laptop and did her best to look as empathetic and non-threatening as she could, just like she had when she had talked to Jason last Halloween. Perhaps that was an omen.

“Tim—“

He was out the door before any of them could blink.


	3. Shots In The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was one of the first skills Batman had taught them: think on your feet, adapt quickly, come up with an ad-hoc plan. A useful skill with a critical flaw: sometimes, spontaneous ideas are the best… and sometimes they are the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a quick heads-up: I’m heading into a twelve-day work week plus overtime and a time zone change (crunch time ftw!), so no guarantees that there will be a new chapter next Sunday. I will try, but no promises.

There were nights when Jason hated the fact that everyone in this flock of flying vigilantes had been taught how to disappear at the flick of a finger. There were nights when he hated the fact that they had each been taught to be silent as a feather.

Tonight was definitely one of those nights.

By the time he was in the hallway, Tim was long gone. He gave a quick glance at the elevators – all parked at lower floors, perfectly unmoving – then turned his attention to the stairs. “I’ll go up.” He took the steps three at a time before Dick would have a chance to protest. For a split second, his hands wanted to reach for the tracking beacon in his hood, a strictly automated reaction, before the realization sank in. He had taken Robin’s cowl and suit and left him in bed in a pair of old training clothes. No trackers. No communicators. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

This was 2011 all over again. Robin going off on his own. No trackers, no communicators. The thought turned his stomach to ice. Was this what Bruce had felt like all those years ago? He hoped so.

The night air stung cold against the little patch of skin between his gloves and his jacket and hoodie. He searched the rooftop once with and once without the lenses and found nothing. Of course not. Gotham’s endless rain had seen to that. Still, he had run off without any of his gear, no grapple, no cape, _no shoes_ so he could not have gotten far.

“Hood, I’m downstairs and I’ve got nothing.” For once, there was not the slightest hint of humor to Dick’s voice. “No finger prints on the door, no foot prints in front. Please tell me you’ve got something.”

“I don’t, but unless B changed the curriculum to include barefoot parcour while I was gone, he can’t have gotten far. There are only two rooftops within jumping distance, one leading back to the Coventry, the other leading to the Royal. Forwarding you the Coventry one now.” This time, he waited just long enough for Nightwing to confirm the transfer before jumping onto the roof to his left. The edges were slick with rain and dirt, difficult to land on properly even with the right footwear. He remembered the time that one autumn when he had still been a kid living on the streets and his only pair of shoes had finally come apart. Traversing Gotham’s rooftops barefoot had been a nightmare filled with dirt, grime, splinters of moldy wood and shards of broken glass. It had taken Jason the better part of a month to become immune to the constant pain. He doubted the replacement had even had a single night of barefoot rooftop climbing.

Unfortunately, four buildings later, there was still no sign of the escaped bird. In the distance, the Royal Hotel towered ominously, its absurdly long banners making the building look as if it was bleeding. It did not help in suppressing the images of a fallen, broken Robin that wormed their way into his mind.

“Fuck you, Tim-bit, where the hell are you...”

“I’ve got nothing,” Dick muttered through the comm. “I’m going back to Mendo’s.”

“Criminals always return to the scene of the crime?”

It had been nothing but a bad joke, a little jab that had slipped past his lips too quickly, but apparently it had lit the fuse on the emotional dynamite that Dick had been stockpiling. “Says the guy who _shoots_ people _in the head_ on a regular basis.” And then, as if that hadn’t been enough, “I hope to god that you are _not_ the one to find him.”

Nightwing dropped from the joint line before he could reply. When he tried to ping him directly, no answer came. _Great._ He had finally done it. “Well, that only took eight months.” He wasn’t surprised. Dick didn’t approve of his methods. Dick didn’t approve of his usual lack of contact. Dick didn’t approve of his smoking. Dick didn’t approve of a lot of things. The bright smile may have fooled strangers, but it didn’t fool Jason. This had been bound to happen. Absolutely inevitable. At least now the cat was out of the bag.

 _I know it hurts_ , Joker’s voice sang in the back of his head, _but sometimes you gotta be cruel to be kind..._

“Hood, can you hear me? Hood, please come in!”

 _That’s Barbara’s calling_ , not-Robin muttered against the grating laughter.

 _Oh good..._ One more bat to hammer the point home. He wondered what choice words she was going to have for him. With a quick tap, Jason accepted the call. “I’m listening.” He wasn’t. Not as a priority at least. The priority was checking the rooftops and alleys within jumping distance for anything out of the ordinary. Just because he had been told to give up, didn’t mean he would. He had disobeyed Batman, he could disobey Nightwing. The replacement was still out there. Someone had to find him.

“I hope you know he didn’t mean that, right?”

“Didn’t mean what?”

“Everything.” There was just a hint of frustration and confusion in her voice, just as it had always been in the old days, when Dick and Jason had argued over... well, anything, really, within her earshot. Supposedly, it was her last-ditch effort of saving a heated conversation from becoming a full-out brawl. Usually, it had only served to make him angrier. “You know Dick doesn’t always think before he speaks.”

“Field names, Oracle.” It was a formality, given that his former apartment was one-hundred percent sound proof and he had double- and triple-checked his communication protocols to make sure they were as unhackable as possible, but then again, nothing was impossible. There was always a bigger fish in the pond.

“Please don’t do that now...”

“And besides, we both know that he _did_ mean it. I’m the black sheep with the loaded guns and the short fuse. I get it.”

On the other end of the line, Barbara sighed deeply. “Maybe, but that was neither the time nor the place to bring up our gripes with your methods, and it certainly wasn’t the right tone.”

 _Channeling Alfred again..._ He swallowed the chuckle that climbed up his throat and continued on his path. He was almost at the Royal now and still no sign of the replacement. This was not good.

“What I’m trying to say,” Barbara was relentless as always, “is that he didn’t mean to hurt you. And don’t even try to tell me that what he said didn’t hurt you, because—“

“Hush!” He held up his left fist instinctively, even though he knew she couldn’t see it. The scream had been distant, yet clear. Someone was in trouble. He looked across the wide street to the hotel and instantly felt like a child in front of a quiz book. _Find the seven hidden errors in this mirrored picture._

_Well, number one, one of those two banners on the left is definitely NOT the official hotel banner._

No golden R on red silk. No. This one was a long laundry list of rhymed scribblings. He snapped a picture for later analysis and turned his attention to the open window from which the new banner streamed on top of the old one.

_Number two, that window ain’t supposed to be open._

He activated the tactical mode of his helmet just in case and grappled in quickly. Right now, there was only one person in the room. He doubted it would stay that way for long.

_Number three, she is definitely neither a guest, nor an employee._

The woman cowering in the corner by the locked door was dressed like a witch working a second job at My Alibi. No guest of the Royal would be caught dead wearing anything as cheap. No employee would be caught dead wearing anything as revealing. Her long blonde hair hung in wild strands in front of her hazel eyes. Her makeup was running from the sweat and tears. Her face looked at least four shades paler than her otherwise very well-tanned skin. It took all of one step in her direction to set her off.

_Number four, chick is terrified out of her goddamn mind._

“D-d-don’t! Don’t come any closer!”

 _Great._ He hadn’t even taken out the guns yet. “Lady, I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Y-y-you’re a ghost! You’re dead! You should be dead!”

Jason didn’t know where she had the room to hide a pistol in those scraps of an outfit, but he knew a M9A3 when he saw one. Her aim was wild and off even before he sidestepped her shot and wrestled the gun out of her trembling hands.

“Don’t hurt me! Just go! I didn’t do nothing! Just go!”

Her vitals were off the charts. From the hallway, loud voices and quick steps came ever closer. In the fifteen seconds it took him to disassemble the gun into tiny little pieces and lock the door, she had curled up into a ball like a hedgehog, still mumbling frantically and ever less coherently. This was not just shock. Unfortunately, he only had about a minute at best before someone was going to break down that door.

The gun came first. At some point in the past, this woman had had enough sense and awareness to put on gloves before handling it, leaving no finger prints on any of its parts. The magazine was short four rounds, meaning she had fired at least two shots before gunning for him, yet there was no blood anywhere. There were three sets of fresh foot prints in the room – hers, his and something he scanned and filed away for later investigation. _Men’s boots, size 14, well-defined traction patterns._ Whoever had attacked her in this room had some big feet and high quality shoes, and had either been quick enough to dodge two bullets or had worn some really, really good Kevlar.

“Alright, lady, I’ve got nothing else to go on, so I need your hand.” _Literally._ As expected, she scrambled the moment he tried to reach for her. Unfortunately for her, whatever drug was in her system made her far, far too slow for a trained bat. He brought her down onto the ground in the same hold he had applied on the replacement earlier. “I don’t wanna hur—“

He had nearly finished taking off her right glove when he caught sight of it. A small black and white tattoo of a leopard’s head on her right shoulder. It looked familiar, though he couldn’t remember why. The banging on the door did not help. “Later.” He snapped a picture of the tattoo, then went for the finger prints. Beneath him, the woman still squirmed and raged as if he really were a ghost coming to scare her to death. Once he turned her over, he knew why.

The puncture wound in the middle of her chest was tiny, almost invisible to the naked eye, but few things passed by a professional sniper. The blood had already begun to dry, so he retrieved the syringe he carried and took a fresh sample from the same wound. With any luck, no one would notice.

He had long since grappled out of the window and onto the bridge connecting the two towers when the door was finally kicked in. He could hear her rambling and the shocked, helpless attempts of the staff to calm her down over the audio receivers in his hood.

“Oracle, I’m back. Any news on Robin?”

“I wish. Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” It was only half a lie. Physically he was fine, but something about this entire experience just ruffled all his feathers the wrong way. There had been no way out of that room except for the door and the window and the foot prints confirmed which way her mystery attacker had gone. There weren’t all that many people who had access to the kind of chemicals that could reduce a person to a rambling mess in seconds _and_ the ability to survive a jump from the twelfth floor. “I think I just had a near miss with our mystery vigilante. I’ve got some evidence that needs analyzing. Fingerprints, blood sample…”

“Bring it over then,” Oracle replied, clearly displeased with the latest addition to the growing laundry list of things to keep watch over. This night was getting better and better. Back when the Batcave servers had been online, this would not have been a problem. But now… “Wing came back empty-handed—well, not exactly, he did find out how Tetch transported the girls,” Barb corrected herself as she went along, “but no sign of Robin. Please tell me you’ve got something, Hood. Please…”

Whatever sarcastic retort he had had ready died on his tongue at the crushed sound of anxiety on her voice. No wonder. The replacement was her husband and he was god knew where, unarmed and not quite in his right mind in a city full of deranged murderers.

“Sorry, Oracle.”

“Goddamn it!” He could faintly hear the sound of something hitting the wall in the background. “Now I know why B came up with the Gauntlet as your final exam.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t remind me of that...”

Jason groaned. Now was neither the time nor the place. It also didn’t help that his approach to the seemingly impossible task of not getting caught by Batman had been ridiculously simple and yet horrifyingly close to what he had feared Bruce would eventually do when he grew tired of him – ditch the costume and gizmos and gadgets, go back to the gutter, grab some dirty old, torn clothes from the nearest dumpster and then spend the night hanging in the next best free clinic, getting lost in the crowd of other homeless, nameless runts who were spending hours waiting for a chance to see a doctor. It had been all too easy. When he had returned to the manor after sunrise, Bruce had made him explain how he had managed to evade Batman for an entire night and why he had chosen to do it that way. The resulting discussion had bordered on an intervention and had left both Bruce and Jason ready to punch each other in the face.

In the end, Jason figured Bruce should have known. Dick had gone for his own home turf after all – speed, agility and bat-taught lessons. Jason had gone for his own as well – sheer pragmatism and bending the rules. No one had said he’d have to stay in costume and if Batman hadn’t found street rat Jason Todd in five, almost six, years he had been on the street, then surely he wouldn’t find him in one night. He only had to stay away from the Batmobile and Crime Alley.

He was halfway back to the safehouse when it finally clicked.

“Oracle, did the replacement ever have any fights with B? I mean, the bad ‘I don’t want to talk to you ever again’ kind of fights?”

He hoped the answer was yes. Partly because that might be the only salvageable clue, partly because it would prove that it had not just been his fault that he had clashed with Bruce almost every week.

“Rarely. And he didn’t usually tell anyone. Ti—He’s more of a silent sufferer.”

Maybe someone had cut him a break after all. “Do you know what he did to deal with it?” There was always some kind of dealing involved. Jason knew that from personal experience. In his case, fighting with Bruce had usually meant ditching the manor and wandering the streets, kicking ten tons of crap out of random thugs. Dick, at least according to Alfred, had usually been found in his room with a big bowl of ice cream, chocolate or cocoa puffs, whichever was at hand at the time.

“Punching bags. Followed by a tablet, Netflix and the peace and quiet of the laundry room.” There was a slight pause at the end of the line and Jason could hear her gears click at the same time as his. “Oh god... he never left the building, did he?”

“Probably not.” He ditched his gear except for his grapple in one of his nearby caches and covered the remaining two blocks on foot with the jacket turned inside out so no one could see the red bat symbol.

The basement was as bleak and creepy as it had been the day he had moved in. He had only been down here once, out of sheer curiosity and the trained habit of checking the entire perimeter at least once, before quickly fleeing back upstairs, out of the dark, dank, confined space that reminded him way too much of another dark, dank, underground place. And since his apartment had its own laundry machine and dryer, there was really no reason to come down here except maybe for maintenance or storage.

_Or for finding a spooked bird._

This time, the unsettling feeling in his gut wasn’t half as bad. He had made a point of not backing off from underground hideouts and small confined places during patrol. After all, the only way to truly conquer fear was to face it. He had, however, had the good sense to keep it to one PTSD triggering place per night. This was already filling the quota more than enough.

He found him in the stall labeled 08.14, the storage unit assigned to Jason’s apartment, and Jason couldn’t suppress the slight chuckle that built up in his throat. Of course goody-two-shoes had not had the heart to break into someone else’s property. In the farthest corner of the empty lot, a weary head slowly rose from where it had previously rested on two drawn up knees and folded arms.

“Jason?”

“No, I’m his evil clone come to break your bones and eat your soul.”

For a moment, the replacement looked at him as if he wasn’t quite sure whether that had been sarcasm or not. “Don’t even joke, man...” His voice sounded as if he had just tried to gargle razor blades with vodka. “After all the crap we’ve seen... man-eating crocodile people, six-hundred year-old reanimated corpses, Joker-Bruce—“

“Ok, ok, it’s just me!” He decided to cut it off right there. Any conversation that invoked Joker was more than likely to go into unhelpful directions. All of a sudden, Jason felt completely out of place. This was not his job. Talking to people... making sure they were ok... It had been his job as Robin and the people he had rescued had usually acted like he had been decent enough at it, but that had been ages ago. A different costume. A different situation. Now... He was Red Hood. They didn’t call them comfort rifles and happy-smile grenades. _He doesn’t need Red Hood_ , Jason realized. _He needs Nightwing_.

 _No_ , not-Robin scolded, _he needs Jason_.

With a deep sigh, Jason sat down in the corner opposite of his replacement. He would have preferred the one next to him in the back, where he could keep the exit covered, but cornering someone who was already spooked was hardly ever a good idea. His hands reached for his cigarettes automatically, before he realized that there were smoke detectors all throughout the basement. The thought instantly intensified the itching underneath his skin. He had no idea what to say or where to start and no smokes to stay distracted. _Fucking perfect_. This was going to be a disaster.

“Please tell me you found those girls.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. By his own count, six minutes had passed. Six minutes of silence and this was his first thought? He really was prime Robin material. “No we haven’t, because we weren’t looking for them.”

“What?” Robin stared at him in stunned horror. “Why? Did something more urgent come up? Did someone die?”

“No.” Another quick cut. Trauma was a locomotive. Every second you let it gain steam, it was only going to get worse. “Nobody died, but Robin disappeared without trackers and comms. From what I understand, that is actually considered ‘something more urgent’ than... well, most things.”

Tim looked at him uncomprehending, as if he had just started talking in some strange, alien language. Then, all of a sudden, his face hardened. “How long has it been?”

Jason just shrugged his shoulders. The clock was integrated into his helmet and he hadn’t bothered to check before ditching it at the cache. “Maybe an hour?”

“An hour?! You’ve searched for me for an entire hour? But the girls—“ He watched Robin draw his knees closer, letting his head fall back onto them, face buried and hidden. “This is all my fault. I lured them to the Hatter and now I delayed your search for them. This is all my fault...”

“Don’t forget you had Barb and Dick worried to death. And I had to fish you out of the bay when you tried to drown yourself,” Jason added. The replacement didn’t answer, but his body spoke clearly enough. His muscles tensed, his hair bristled. Jason could tell from the goose bumps on his arms where he had rolled up the sleeves of the hoodie. “And you know what’s really crazy: none of that is actually your fault.”

“It is.” Suddenly, Tim was up on his feet, pacing up and down along the wall in short, frantic steps. “I know how the Hatter works. I know he uses those masks. I should have been more careful. It _is_ my fault. I—“

His fist connected hard and fast, sending Robin flying back into the corner he had previously cowered in. His lip was split and bleeding slightly, his eyes slightly unfocused, but Jason doubted he had done much damage. Dick was gonna throw a fit when he found out about this, but since he was already here... go hard or go home. He brought up his lower arm against his replacement’s throat, pinning him into the corner.

“No, Robin. It’s not.”

Slowly, the replacement turned to look at him again. It had been a low blow, lowering his voice, putting just the slightest bit of a growl into it, to do his best impression of no-discussion-allowed Batman, but all is fair in love and war. He wasn’t sure where exactly this conversation fell, but he didn’t care.

“I killed Robin and Batman once, you know.” He didn’t know why his mind dragged up this specific memory or why he was insane enough to share, but the damage was already done. Tim’s eyebrow rose in confusion. “Joker had two of his goons dressed up like Robin and Batman. Then he pumped me full of drugs and let them beat me up and torture me. One day I broke both their necks. Was that my fault?”

“Of course not!” The answer came almost instantaneously, as if Tim was insulted at the mere suggestion. “Joker drugged you, Jason. He drugged and tortured you and did god knows what else to you for over a year. I don’t blame you for anything, you know that.”

“Glad to hear it.” He wasn’t entirely sure just what else ‘anything’ included, but now was not the time to argue. “So... what _you_ did under the influence of the freaking Hatter’s _hypnosis_ and _mind control_ is your fault... exactly how?”

That seemed to stump him. His eyes were unfocused, his lips slightly apart, as his mind fumbled for a satisfactory answer. “I... I—“

“Don’t bother. It’s a trick question. This one’s on Tetch. Not on you.”

“I still should not have let her put that hat on me,” Tim objected, his voice somewhere between a whisper and a sob and the sound drove a knife through Jason’s gut. How fucked up was it that it was the sidekick he would have been most eager to pump full of lead just a year ago who seemed to be the one who understood the most? It was not something they should have had in common, but now they did.

 _Fucking guilt complexes in this fucking clan of psychos..._ He was starting to see why Barb and Alfred had always been so frustrated with Batman and Robin.

“And I shouldn’t have turned off my tracker six years ago. But I did. I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life. If I can do it, so can you, goddamn it!”

He decided to let that sink in for a while. He had reached a silent count of two-hundred and five when he finally got an answer. It turned out to be something he hadn’t expected at all.

“I’m gonna murder that bastard.”

“No, you won’t.” Jason backed off slowly. He doubted the lesson had truly sunk in yet. He _knew_ for a fact that the guilt would probably stick with him for weeks, if not months or even years. He had been there. He knew. But for now, rage was good enough. For now, he needed to get Robin out of this over-sized concrete coffin. The sooner they got out of this fucking depressing basement, the better. “I’m the one with the guns, remember? You’re just gonna throw your shurikens and save the damsels. Robin already has a red vest. He doesn’t need any red on his hands.”

“If we go by that logic, Red Hood already has a red helmet. He doesn’t need any red on _his_ hands, either.”

He turned around to find Nightwing leaning against the gate to the opposite lot, balanced perfectly on his toes as if he had been doing some kind of tight rope act for the last ten minutes. If it hadn’t been for the sober look on his face, it would have been amusing.

“Not in the mood for a lecture, _Dick_. Bird boy and I have four Alices to rescue.”

***

To her eternal credit, Barb had proven once again that even in the worst emotional crisis Oracle, Batgirl, Barbara Gordon, was someone to rely on. Not only had she fully integrated Nightwing’s investigation of the new arms black market into their existing pool of open cases, she had also filed all evidence from Mendo’s, updated the reports of the sleep-epidemic with the latest intel from hospitals and shelters all around Gotham, sent Cash the information about the body at Seagate – only to find out that the same crime had been called in by an anonymous tipper four minutes earlier – and she had readied the equipment she had brought from the Clock Tower for his latest blood and prints evidence.

If there was a god, his name was Barbara.

By the time he returned with his retrieved gear, both Oracle and Nightwing had their noses buried in evidence, while Robin was getting suited up. Of course no one was going to take a break. Not when there were still four hours to go until sunrise. It was almost frightening to see how, even in spite of the many different things that had happened to each of them and the different roads they had taken, Batman’s basic training still pervaded their nightly routines.

He decided to resume his previous seat by the window and start with the blood sample. This time nobody protested as he lit a cigarette while waiting for the results to show up. The finger prints were next. He ran them through GCPD’s database, not expecting much of anything.

He certainly didn’t expect to get a match within twenty seconds.

“Got something on that girl from the Royal. Deirdre Vance, age thirty-four. Arrested twice for armed robbery.”

“That’s the one you suspected had a run-in with our mystery vigilante, right?” Barbara’s eyes were still glued to her screen, but he knew she was listening. Behind her, Robin leaned on the back of the couch, clearly skimming whatever it was she had on screen, most likely catching up on all he had missed.

“The very—“ He was interrupted by the blood sample analyzer beeping twice. Even without looking at the screen, Jason knew what the result was. One long beep, negative. Two short beeps, positive. “The one I _know_ had a run-in with our mystery vigilante,” Jason corrected himself. “ _Ghost_ , I believe the GCPD has dubbed him. Got the same traces of watered-down fear gas in her blood that GCPD found with all the others.”

“Seriously?” Dick sounded more annoyed than surprised. “After everything that happened last year, we still have someone running around with that stuff?”

“Gas mask sales went up four-hundred percent last week,” Oracle explained. “And according to dad, they’ve got every army base within a hundred mile radius on standby.”

“Scarecrow’s a popular man outside of Gotham,” Jason explained while browsing the files on Deirdre Vance. Both robberies she had been arrested for had been disgustingly ordinary, outside of some really bad graffiti to go with the felonies. “You have no idea the kind of money drug lords and mercs in South America are ready to shell out for some fear toxin. Mostly to make their own signature torture cocktails out of it.”

Now, all eyes were on him again. He didn’t even have to look. He just knew. In his head, he could already hear the dozens of unspoken questions he was not ready to answer, so instead, Jason put his cigarette out on the ash tray to his left and lit another. “I set up a search algorithm to look for matches, but this brand... the one our vigilante is using... it’s new. Usually they are looking to make stuff more lethal and terrifying, not less harmful.”

When he reached the end of Vance’s file, Jason turned his attention to her tattoo instead. Wild cat on the shoulder wasn’t exactly the most uncommon motive, but still he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had seen the exact same thing somewhere else before. _But where, for fuck’s sake?_

It was only when he banged his head softly against the cold glass, exhaling cold smoke, that he realized Dick was staring at him as if he were about to ask him to take a bath in a vat full of acid.

“Something on your mind, Goldie?”

“No. Nothing.”

That was a terrible lie. He could see it in the way he immediately buried his face in his laptop, in the way Barb and the replacement stole quick, telling glances at each other. “Don’t fuck with me, Richard.” He watched him bristle for a fraction of a second. No one ever used that name unless they were really ticked off with him and Dick knew that. Jason had enough of a hard time figuring out which things he had ever been told, whether by Joker, Bruce or any of the others, were truth or not. He didn’t need this now. “I can take your bad jokes, your clinginess and your disgusting million-watts smile, but don’t you fucking lie to me.”

Nightwing swallowed hard. “You say you still have access to your databases... from your time as... you know—“

“From my time as the Arkham Knight,” Jason finished the sentence for him. “Yeah, I do.”

It was the one thing he had not been able to give up, no matter how much he wanted to rid himself of that abomination his mind had given birth to in the asylum. _If you aren’t mad before going to Arkham, you certainly are once you leave,_ people on the street had used to joke back when the asylum had still pretended to be a reputable institution. He wondered if anyone but him had a clue of just how true that statement was. He had done everything he could to get rid of the monster that had been woken in his head. He had burned the suits, trashed the masks, sunk the rest of his gear to the bottom of the ocean, but he had not been able to wipe the databases.

Because at the end of the day, intel was intel, no matter how you got it. At the end of the day, a lead was a lead, a connection was a connection. To throw away a resource like that... Batman would have called it wasteful, foolish and irresponsible. And somehow, despite all the crap that he had gone through, despite the fact that Robin 2.0 had been dead for year, Jason had found himself agreeing with the sentiment.

And every time he even so much as looked at that database, the dark voice inside him was very happy to remind him that Jason needed him after all.

Damned if you do. Damned if you don’t.

“I’ve already got the samples from Gotham General running against every weaponizable, chemical and biochemical substance I ever had or could have had access to. No matches yet.” Then again, from what he could see at a quick glance, only the full match search had finished. He was still looking for fuzzies and partials, and that would take at least a couple of days. It was downright horrifying just how much crap was out there on the black market. He hoped the others understood how blissful ignorance could truly be.

“Actually, I was asking because of the weapons dealing,” Dick replied. “You had Cobblepot smuggle all the militia gear into Gotham last year, right?”

“Yeah.” _Last year_. A different smuggler. A different client. “But it’s not like I’ve got tabs on everyone who ever asked to have anything smuggled into Gotham.”

“Well, I’m only looking for one,” Dick said. “White Swan. Is there any way you could... you know...”

“Arrange a deal?” Jason suggested. Dick only nodded. That in and of itself was a bad sign. Dick Grayson never missed a chance to talk. “Well, I hate to disappoint you, Goldie, but Red Hood is occupying the very special place between ‘not legit enough to walk into the gun store down the road’ and ‘too much of a liability to play with the kitten-stroking evil overlords’. No one with access to the kind of gear you’re looking for would ever sell to a vigilante. Certainly not to one who has been known to side with Robin in a fire fight.”

“I know.” Judging from the deep breath he was taking, Nightwing knew that what he was about to say was going to end in a world of pain. Jason stubbed out his cigarette and squared his shoulders. The sooner this was over, the better. “I’m not asking for Red Hood to arrange a deal,” Dick finally stated. “I’m asking for the Knight.”

_The Arkham Knight... Nice move, Night-brat._

Joker’s laughter bounced around the inside of Jason’s skull like a ping pong ball. His fingers gripped the edges of the laptop like an iron vice, growing colder by the second.

“No.” He couldn’t. He just... _No._.. After all he had done to get rid of this... this monster, this disease... “I can’t.”

“I know I’m asking a lot—“

“You’re asking too much,” Robin cut him off, his voice sharp and accusing, as if it had been a personal insult.

Somewhere in the darkest depths of his mind, Jason heard a chuckle that was entirely too dark and yet eerily close to his own voice mingle with the clown’s laughter.

“Tim, I understand—“

“No, you don’t. If you did you wouldn’t be asking.”

 _Shame you threw away the outfit, isn’t it_ , the voice cooed. _For once you could actually be of use and—oh, no wait. That would be me again who would be useful right? Not Jason, the pathetic little whiner._

Something sharp stung in his fingers, but the pain paled in comparison to the fiery pit that was his lungs. His gut on the other hand had grown cold as ice and the temperature shock sent his circulation straight to hell. The dizziness came first, followed by the tunneling of his vision as he tried to push the two cackling voices in his head back to where they had come from. He was faintly aware that someone was still talking, for real, in his safehouse, but he couldn’t tell who. He ditched the laptop – Why the fuck was there suddenly blood on the carpet? – and got up on sheer instinct, walking away from a discussion he was somehow sure he didn’t want to hear, even if he didn’t understand a word of what was being said.

He didn’t want to hear anyone. He didn’t want to see anyone.

He had barely closed and locked the door to the bathroom when his stomach decided it wanted to be the first part to work again and by ‘work’ it meant ‘revolt’.

When he finally got his head out of the sink and to a matching height with the mirror once more, the J was fresh and red on his cheek, the diamond bright and white on his chest.


	4. Old Habits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old habits die hard. Old foes die harder. Old vigilantes die hardest.

He stayed in the shower until his skin was red and raw, until his cheeks were the same color as the J in his mind, and then some. If he hadn’t been one-hundred percent sure that he was in one of his safehouses, he might have thought he had walked into a sauna. On the bright side, he wouldn’t have to look at himself in the mirror and play ‘count the scars’ again.

He was expecting to find the three of them back in the living room, planning out their next steps and possibly discussing his mental state in hushed whispers. Instead, the moment he walked out the bathroom door, he was face to face with Dick Grayson, leaning on the opposite wall. Jason wondered how much coaxing and corralling it had taken Robin and Barbara to get him to keep that much distance at all. He might have to thank them later. As far as Jason was concerned, two inches closer would have been an invitation to getting punched in that disgustingly handsome face.

“I know what you’re about to say and I don’t want to hear it.”

Dick simply rolled his eyes, as if he had expected nothing less. “I’m still going to say it, because I need you to understand that I am serious: I am truly sorry for what I said earlier and I am even sorrier for suggesting the arms deal thing.”

“Sweet. Now let’s get back to business, shall we.” He rolled his shoulders quickly to alleviate some of the pins and needles prickling that was rising in them, then marched off into the direction of the living room. He didn’t want this conversation and he didn’t need it. Perhaps Robin would do him the favor of getting Nightwing off his case once more. After all, Jason had sort of saved _him_ twice tonight. It would only be fair.

_Life isn’t fair, you moron. Expect nothing and you’ll never be disappointed._

The first thing he noticed as he entered the room was Robin shooting a warning glance past Jason’s shoulder. The second was that the two halves of his laptop had been separated by the hinges and arranged neatly in front of the area where he had been sitting before. Also, someone had gone through the trouble of making sure that everything still worked, even though he could see the main fan and part of the hard drive peeking out from the sides of the keyboard shell.

“Who touched my stuff?”

“I did,” Barbara replied in a tone that made it clear she wasn’t done talking. “The casing broke and I didn’t want you to cut your fingers any more on those edges. I didn’t touch any of your files.”

So that’s where the blood on the carpet had come from... He vaguely recalled the sharp sting in his fingers and he definitely remembered bandaging them just after getting out of the shower.

As promised, his files were exactly as he had left them, although that didn’t mean much with a hacker genius like Barbara in the house. _She wouldn’t_ , not-Robin scolded, but Jason pushed the entire topic back down in favor of another cigarette. He set up another couple of search algorithms for the jaguar tattoo and the shoe prints from the Royal case, then brought up the picture he had taken of the fake banner, only to bite down hard on his cig. This night was getting better and better.

“I hate to break it to you, guys, but we have more trouble incoming.”

“Of course we do,” Robin muttered sarcastically. “Because Gotham.”

He sent the file to Barbara so she could put it on the TV for everyone to see. On the shiny flat screen, orange letters glared warningly from the black banner.

_Welcome back my, bats and birds, I’m sure you do remember, the good old days, with good old Bats, but now it’s time for Newvember!_

_Two wanted to have the last word. I’ll let them be my guests. I shall deliver ink and quill and put their skills to the test._

_Five like to bask in dusty peace, while sharpening the mind. I will be kind and help them leave their troubles far behind!_

_Now, they say variety is the spice of life, but these eight should not have cheated on their wives._

_I will thank these eleven for the years they served. Why are they looking so unnerved?_

_They are angels dressed in white, with a dash of red. Without these fourteen, how many will be dead?_

_It’s hard for these seventeen to find some green in this city, but maybe the top of the hill will take some pity?_

_The prince of Gotham tried to lead by example, yet these nineteen prove that chances are still ample._

_Be thankful you’re still alive – you’re a winner! Now go join your loved ones in time for dinner!_

For a long time, everyone’s eyes were fixated on the screen. Eventually, Robin was the first to wrinkle his brow into a frown and scrub tiredly at his eyes. Perhaps that rabbit mask had some long term side-effects they hadn’t considered yet. _Batman would definitely ground him_ , not-Robin observed.

 _I definitely fucking won’t_ , Jason countered. Just because his sigil was the closest to Batman’s and he was the one who usually insisted on enforcing protocol – old military-drilled habits died hard – did not mean he would have to channel the old man all the time.

“Not sure if Riddler, Calendar Man or just plain crazy,” Robin finally observed.

“Where do we even begin?” Nightwing was already reading the damn thing for the third time. “Newvember? What’s that supposed to be? Bad puns month?”

“‘Dusty peace’ and ‘sharpening the mind’ could be referring to a library,” Barbara suggested. “November 5th is Book Lover’s Day.”

That drew a slight chuckle from both his de-facto brothers. “Of course you’d know that,” Robin teased, only to be met by Barbara’s sharp sideways glare.

“You know I was considering having you sleep on the couch earlier tonight, right?”

For a split second, Jason felt a smile tug at his lips, but the moment was gone as quickly as it had come. Any other night, watching the replacement dig himself deeper into his proverbial grave would have been a delight. Tonight, he just couldn’t find the energy to care. Not with news like this.

“I don’t think we’re going to find this funny when this psycho kills a bunch of kids on the 19th.” The others looked at him in confusion. Jason just shrugged his shoulders and lit another cig, noticing with mild worry that he was halfway through the pack. He’d have to roll some more in the morning. “November 19th is the Sunday before Thanksgiving. National Adoption Day. The Prince of Gotham leading by example obviously refers to Bruce adopting three kids, one of them a half-gypsy carnie and the other a lousy street rat, no less. We’re looking at nineteen dead kids here. If there’ll still be nineteen left whenever this epidemic thing is over.”

He wished he didn’t know any of this. He wished the last Sunday before Thanksgiving had never had any special meaning to him, but he remembered 2010. He remembered the year he had officially become Bruce Wayne’s son. Back then, the thought had filled him with a painfully misguided sense of pride (he had had no part in the adoption after all; that had all been Bruce and his lawyers; Jason had merely been lucky enough to jack the tires of the right car at the right time) and a strange, pleasant feeling that he hadn’t been quite able to put a name to. It had made him feel all warm and fuzzy and _safe_ inside, which had only made for an even worse awakening from the fairy tale dream a year later. But on November 21 st, 2010 he had come back home from Saturday night patrol, lit a couple of candles on his bedside table and quietly thanked whatever higher powers were out there that he was no longer sleeping in card board boxes, fishing for food in dumpsters and wondering when he would finally get mugged, raped, shot, stabbed and left for dead in some alley, and he had quietly hoped that someone out there had had similar luck, too.

Yeah, even back then survivor’s guilt had been a bitch.

“Well, as horrible as it sounds,” Barbara’s fingers flew across the keyboard, no doubt setting up a dozen searches of her own to find out what other sick calendar celebrations were in store for them, “whoever these nineteen kids are, they still have at least nineteen days to live. We have no tangible leads on Ghost, White Swan, Croc or this Silenzio guy, so I suggest we focus on the two pressing cases with victims who are still alive, but may not be by tomorrow.”

“Hatter and the epidemic,” Robin concluded. He looked like someone was about to ask him to hand over the cowl and cape. “I know you will all object to this, but I’m going after Tetch. I spent months pointlessly trying to research a cure for Joker’s weird Titan blood infection. If I have to do one more bio-chemical research project, I’m going to kick someone in the face.”

“And I suppose wanting payback on Tetch has nothing to do with it?” The edge to Dick’s voice was only ever so slight and most people would probably have missed it, but Bruce had trained them better than that. He watched Barbara freeze in place, clearly hoping to keep herself out of this discussion, to avoid picking sides. Robin on the other hand was scowling enough to give Bruce a run for his money. It was clear what Dick was implying. He was afraid Robin would go off the rails, too. One more family member to break the code. One more white sheep turning black.

“When I said I was going to murder him, I didn’t mean it,” Robin insisted. “It was a figure of speech. But I’m the one who got sloppy. I’m going to fix it.”

“We don’t even know where to start looking—“

“Closed down hat shops and book stores,” Barbara cut him off. “That’s his usual MO.”

“You can add abandoned costume shops to that.” Jason stabbed the cigarette out in the tray and locked down his laptop. The searches would run in the background just fine and ping him directly on his helmet when the results came in. He was wasting time sitting here. Time that at least four people in this city did not have. “Those tea parties he throws require lots of props.”

“I suppose you want to join Robin so you can go out and crack some skulls?” This time, Dick was careful not to put any unwelcome stabs into his words and to sound as non-threatening as possible.

_Like tiptoeing around a rabid dog._

“I don’t wanna join anyone, but yeah, cracking skulls sounds _really_ good.” The words had left his mouth before his mind became aware of the implications. He wondered which one of them was going to channel Bruce first, scowling at him and then giving him the lecture about how this violent attitude of his was precisely the reason why he would not be allowed to run off on his own.

 _Well, too bad, suckers_ , Jason thought to himself as he checked his guns and took stock of all his gear once more. _This is my turf. I decide when I come and go. No one else._

“Personally, I would be very grateful if you would go with him.”

That turned everybody’s head into Barbara’s direction, even his own. It was frightening how alike Robin and Nightwing looked when they had the same look of confusion on their faces. Even more disturbing was the idea that he wasn’t too far off under the hood, either. Except for all the scars, of course.

“What?” Barb just shrugged her shoulders, before turning to her husband. “You just barely recovered from being brainwashed. I don’t want you going out there without backup.” Nightwing was next. “And you... I could go through all the data from Blüdhaven on my own, sure, but you know BPD and how they operate. You could speed up my work a lot. Besides...” And now it was Jason’s turn. He wondered what justifiable reason she’d have for sending him of all people, the guy who neither of them believed to be fully sane and accountable, to babysit the bird. “I need someone who won’t be afraid to knock Robin out and drag him back to safety, kicking and screaming if need be.”

“Barb, if I have to knock him out, there’ll be no kicking and screaming. There’ll be broken feet and dislocated jaws.”

Despite the absurdity of the situation, or perhaps because of it, Robin’s mouth curved into a wide smile. “See, you’re improving. Didn’t even mention bullets.” And then, as if he had just been shot for real, a deep shudder rolled through Robin’s body. “Good thing, too. Been there, done that.”

 _Scarecrow..._ Sometimes Jason forgot about that. Robin had taken a bullet to the side and lost a kidney in the process. He had been completely out of commission for six weeks, followed by another six weeks of training before hitting the streets again. Dick had insisted, and Dick Grayson, for better or for worse, was a beast when it came to protecting the ones he loved, particularly from themselves. Getting shot at was nothing new for any of them. Actually getting shot at such close range, should have been new, but wasn’t. The thought made his hands curl into fists instinctively. _So much for family always being there to protect you._

But maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to do his part now.

“Alright, Barb. For you.” He got up quickly and rolled his shoulders only to get a nasty cracking sound in return that made Oracle and Robin wince and Nightwing cringe hard. He could already hear the questions that were about to come. “Just damage. Not life-threatening, not fixable and none of your goddamn business. You ready, replacement?”

“Yeah...” It was an answer, alright, but he had put as much motivation and seriousness into it as Red Hood had into listening to Oracle’s apology in Nightwing’s stead earlier. It was an acknowledgement, nothing more. Behind that cowl, gears were turning, analyzing this newly gained information, assessing the situation anew. Apparently, some things never changed. Apparently, people would never stop wondering whether he was fit for the job.

_One more reason to go out and find someone to punch in the face._

They were almost out the door when Nightwing called after them. He turned around only to catch a golf-ball-shaped something that had been flung into his direction. Robin’s reflexes, while slightly slower, possibly due to lingering effects from the mask, had still been good enough to catch the other piece. One side of the shiny black wrapper had a silver cobweb printed on it, surrounded by the full name, trademark symbols and slogan of Blüdhaven Candy Corp, the other had a bright, orange skull circled by the words _Happy Halloween Gotham_. He had heard BCC had sponsored one piece of candy per capita for this year’s Halloween parade free of charge, with half the sale of the remaining batches going into the ever-growing, ever-needed Gotham Redevelopment – read: rebuild after supervillain-bat-clash – Fund, but he had never thought that Nightwing, who had spent the last six years trying to rid Blüd of its corruption, would have bought into the scam. Not to mention, it was tacky as hell, but then again, Dick _loved_ tacky.

“Really?” He hoped the frown showed through his helmet. “BCC bonbons?”

“Turning down free candy should be a misdemeanor, punishable by law.” As if to prove that he was ever the good cop, leading by example, Nightwing promptly unwrapped and made short work of his own chocolate candy. “Besides, what’s Halloween without some treats, right?”

_Halloween._

_Free candy._

_Trick or treat._

_Oh fuck._

He could see the realization hit the others at the same time it hit him. It took all of two seconds for the room to go completely silent and the others to freeze in place. Before he even knew what he was doing and why, Jason had grabbed Dick by the collar and was dragging him off to the bathroom.

How had they not seen it? How could they have been so blind? Of course it was the fucking candy. Kids loved candy. Hell, nearly everyone loved candy, except for weirdos like Bruce who had seemed to have his enjoyment of anything sweet surgically removed by the age of eight. And it was Halloween. Few people would turn down free candy on Halloween. Children certainly wouldn’t. It was insanely smart and horrifyingly sadistic.

_Just like chocolate-and-cherry cake laced with Joker venom._

He kept hold of Dick’s suit, even as he flipped up the toilet seat and rummaged through the bathroom cabinet until he found a spare toothbrush, even despite the moaning, whining, flailing and dragging of heels. Dick could throw his childish fit if he wanted to. Jason was going to drag him to safety kicking and screaming if he had to. Perhaps Barb really did know him better than he thought.

“Take this...” He pushed the toothbrush upside down into a spandex-clad hand, “... push it down your throat nice and deep and don’t bite. Should trigger the gag reflex almost instantaneously.”

“You’re joking.” Dick glanced between him and the toilet bowl as if he had just been asked to sink his head straight into the crapper. While what he was asking was not exactly much more pleasant than that, Jason wasn’t in the mood for a discussion. There was no time. He flipped open his helmet and brought his other hand up to draw Dick closer until their faces were less than a hand’s width apart.

“Richard. John. Grayson.” His voice had become a low growl, the same growl he usually reserved for criminals or, back in his days with the militia, for soldiers disobeying orders or just failing miserably at common sense. “Take this toothbrush and start gagging up that chocolate or I will _make_ you do it.”

“Alright.” Dick’s fingers curled around the tooth brush slowly. He was still eyeing the brush like he wanted to break it in two and chuck it into the bin, but the tone of his voice left no doubt. Dick Grayson had resigned himself to his fate. 1:0 for Red Hood. “Alright. I’ll do it. Go ahead and get onto the case. I’ll join you when I’m done.”

Jason merely rolled his eyes at that. “Newsflash, Dickie, this ain’t the time to be coy. I’m not leaving this bathroom until you’ve coughed up every last bit of that chocolate.”

True to his word, Jason waited, leaning against the sink, while Dick knelt down in front of the toilet and started retching up the poison he had consumed. If it was half as painful as it sounded, this would probably go down as one of the top three worst Halloweens of his life. Short tremors went through his muscles with each gag and his face – not that any of them were ever in danger of getting a tan – had turned white enough to make snow go ‘damn, that’s pale’.

Come to think of it, Jason had never seen Dick Grayson be that sick. He had seen him down with the flu once or twice during Gotham’s coldest winter months, but even then he had had that unbelievably happy grin on his face when they had met for their monthly sparring sessions. He had seen him stuck in a hospital bed after getting shot while in civvies, but even then he had been cracking jokes and making corny puns. But this... this frail, trembling boy... this wasn’t the Dick Grayson he knew. A year ago, he would have rejoiced at the sight. Part of him still did and he pushed the thought away quickly. The rest of him simply felt sad and, dare he think it, _guilty_ for putting him through this hell. Still, he waited until the only thing coming out Dick’s mouth was clear gastric acid before making his next move.

“Hey...” Dick looked up as soon as Jason’s hand touched his shoulder and the look of utter misery in his eyes only twisted the knife harder. “That’s enough. Toss the brush.” Dick was happy to oblige, snapping the cursed instrument of his torture for good measure before throwing it into the bin. Jason immediately replaced it with a cup of water. “Drink. It will help with the burning. And it will calm down your stomach.”

“You really know what you’re doing, Jaybird...”

 _Not an accusation_ , not-Robin jumped in before the rest of his fucked up brain could react. _It’s just an observation._

Well, at least he hoped it was. “Park Row ain’t big on food safety. Never has been.” And neither had been Joker, or any of the other psychos he had met after, but he was not about to share any of that. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Hopefully never. “My money’s on Sweet Tooth. He may not have the chemical know-how to make whatever poison was in that chocolate, but if anyone knows how to get it into food and past quality control, it’d be him.”

“Agreed.”

Jason refilled the cup once it was empty and handed it back to Dick. “And _you_ are definitely staying in with Barb. Just in case.”

And so he had ended up grounding a bird after all.

***

In the end, his hunch had been right. While Red Hood and Robin had been following the Hatter’s trail, starting at the corner at Mendo’s where his escape boat had been anchored, carefully shielded from the cameras thanks to the drainage pipes, all the way back to Dixon Dock West where a camera had picked up an image of a suspicious boat arriving at the harbor, Oracle and Nightwing had scoured all employee records relating to Blüdhaven Candy Corp for any matches with Damian Laurie. He had changed his name. He had even managed to fake his finger print records, although that was hardly an impossible feat in a city as corrupt as Blüd. However, even the best disguise was no match for Oracle’s hawk eyes and Lucius’ biometric imaging software.

“Laurie signed up as a cleaning help, three weeks ago,” Oracle explained to them over comms while Robin and Red Hood searched yet another possible location of Tetch for clues. Sadly, whoever had helped him get out of prison had also taught him a thing or two about cleaning up crime scenes. His trail had gone cold, leaving them with no option but to stake out and investigate potentials. It had been a slow two hours, interrupted by the occasional breaking up of attempted muggings, rapes and murders. Usual Gotham fare. “According to his files, he was one of the few employees who was, I quote, ‘not at all troubled by working night shifts and weekends’.”

“You don’t say...” Jason mocked back. “Skeleton crews, tired and over-worked security personnel, a camera malfunction here and there...”

“That would imply that they have working cameras,” Oracle corrected with obvious disgust in her voice. “Half of BCC’s equipment is from the technological dark ages. I’m pretty sure the only thing keeping their tech in one piece is lots of duct-tape and wishful thinking.”

“They don’t call Blüd ‘Budget Cut City’ for nothing.” Even despite the generally dismal mood, there was a spark of amusement and positivity in Nightwing’s voice. If there was one good thing that Jason could say about this Halloween, it was that neither one of the four of them had gotten seriously or permanently hurt. Yet. “We’ve sent everything we’ve got to GCPD and BPD, but if he’s any sort of smart, he’s changed identities and hideouts already. I’m gonna have to comb over that apartment of his when I get back to Blüd.”

“You wanna call it a night?” The clock integrated into his helmet read 04:22. Somewhere in the small patches of green left in the city, the first birds were starting to chirp and he could have sworn the tint of the sky was changing ever so slightly.

“Let’s finish checking Central at least, okay?”

Jason sighed. They had been through Bleake, they had been through Miagani, they were nearly done with Founders, but their search had been fruitless. If these last two abandoned shops were to yield any clues, he’d eat his hood. Still, never do tomorrow...

The first one turned out to be woefully empty, both before and after scans. The second, not so much. He eyed the shop from a half-crumbled building on the opposite side of the street. On his tactical vision, four skeletons showed up in the distance. If the positioning of the bones was anything to go by, they were bound to chairs. On the bright side, all four were moving as much as they could.

On the not so bright side, the place was right next to Killinger’s. Just his fucking luck.

“You okay, Hood?”

“Yeah, just not enjoying being back _here_ of all places.” He watched the pieces of the puzzle fall in place inside the replacement’s head as he looked at he looked at the big department store sign. Thankfully, Robin didn’t comment. “Let’s get in there. With any luck, it’s Alice.” Jason grappled down to the street and broke down the door without waiting for a reply. They had had the ‘who goes first’ argument already. Red Hood was the one with the helmet covering his face. Good luck getting a mask on that. Robin was the one who had already been ambushed tonight. 2:0 for Red Hood.

They weren’t lucky of course. ‘Alice’ turned out to be four guys in their thirties or forties, tied to their respective chairs in heavy chains, with their faces bruised and their mouths duct-taped. Jason counted at least half a dozen broken bones on each of them. If it hadn’t been for the gang-patches on their jackets, he might just have felt sorry for them.

“A white swan and a black one,” Robin observed. “Maybe this is our lucky night.” He took the tape off the one to the very right and crouched down to be on eye level with him. “How about it, chump? You tell me about your boss and I make sure GCPD cuts you a nice deal?”

“How about you fuck off and I don’t shoot you in the face when I get out of here.”

Jason had to give credit where credit was due. This guy was either very stupid or very brave. “Johnny... can I call you, Johnny?” He perched himself behind the thug, hands on the backrest of the chair, just out of view no matter how much the man turned his head. “Do you know how many bones you have left for the two of us to break?”

“Go fuck yourself, cowboy! The Bat is dead and you two ain’t got the balls.”

“Robin...” He nodded into the direction of his replacement while strumming his fingers on his prey’s shoulders. “Do you know how many bones this scumbag has left?”

“Two-hundred and two, accounting for the four broken ribs,” Robin replied, perfectly in sync with Jason’s own intimidating demeanor.

Only he didn’t mean it. Jason could read him like an open book. Robin wasn’t the one who cracked the bones; he was the one who provided cover and comfort where necessary. Robin wasn’t the one they feared and there was a good reason for it. Tim had as little tolerance for torture as Dick, as Jason had learned during their first patrol together. _Coward._

Well, Batman was no longer around to do the heavy lifting. It took him all of two seconds to whip out one of his guns and bring it down hard on the pinky finger of the unfortunate man. Judging from the long scream that followed, he was off to a good start. “Two-hundred and one, now.” He waited until the screaming stopped before strumming his fingers once more. “I can keep this up _all_ night, Johnny, and when I’m done with you, I’ll still have those three clowns over here.” He nodded towards the other three and was pleased to see that their heart rates had gone through the roof. “So unless any of you black-and-white birdies got a song to sing, this is going to take a bit.”

“Except we’ve got other fish to fry.” From the door to the street, Robin scowled at him under the mask. It was Batman’s trademark ‘that’s enough’ scowl. Too bad it had lost any and all of its intimidating qualities a long time ago. At least in Jason’s eyes. “These guys are a dime a dozen.”

“They aren’t worth it, Jason,” Nightwing agreed over comms and Jason wanted to punch him in the face. _Field names, for fuck’s sake!_

“I agree. It’s almost sunrise anyway.” For once, he couldn’t hear the faint sound of Barbara typing away on her keyboard. That alone told him more about what was going on in his safehouse than anything else. “You came to look for Tetch. He’s not there. Just call it a night, get some rest. Let Cash have these guys.”

Normally, Jason would have liked the sound of that. Cash, while a good cop, had spent enough time in Gotham’s security industry to know that ‘by the book’ was not always enough. Normally, Cash would have been a good choice.

Only this was not a normal night. Cash had a mass epidemic with a majority of child victims on his hand. Cash also had two children. One plus one equals two. Jason doubted Cash was in any mood to care for anything but Sweet Tooth and his poison candy tonight. He was almost ready to tell Robin to piss off when the sound reached his ear. It was mechanical, little pins and needles clinking over thin metal. He looked up to the vent just behind and above his head and felt his heart stop.

The sources were four little mechanical spiders, their hulls made of dirty-grey metal. They were missing the red paint he had put on the ones in Killinger’s, but other than that, they were almost identical. Almost, except for the little box strapped to their backs. With the blinking red light. That ticked softly.

“Oh, fuck!”

He lunged forward on pure instinct, tackling the replacement to the ground with him just in time for the ceiling to come apart with the force of the explosion. Whatever they had strapped to the spiders must have been good if it could bring down the roof on them. He coughed through the dust as he tried to ignore the heat on this back and the mild ringing in his left ear.

_Ankles? Knees? Hips? Waist? Shoulders? Elbows? Wrists? Fingers? Neck? Eyes?_

He went through the entire ten-point check and was pleased to find that most of the important parts were still working. His left shoulder felt weird, like something was putting pressure on it, though he couldn’t feel any weight on his body. Something was definitely broken. He’d deal with it later.

“Robin! Red Hood! Come in! Are you okay?”

Oracle’s voice was slightly garbled, but he understood her just fine. _Minor damage to the electronics. Possibly salvageable._ “I’ll live. Replacement?”

“Just peachy.”

Robin crawled out from under him slowly. There would be just enough room for them to get out through the now busted front door. Judging from the creaking of the ruin around them, the sooner the better. Jason waited until all he could see was a pair of boots and the bottom of the cape behind the broken doorway, then edged forward carefully.

His first impression had been right. Aside from his shoulder, everything seemed to work just fine. Even the heat on his back was slowly dissipating, although he was sure the jacket was ruined. The helmet had protected him from the worst of the dust and soot, too. All in all, he was much luckier than the four sleazeballs who were now lying lifeless under tons of rubble.

_Definitely less than two-hundred bones now._

Perhaps, this was Gotham’s subtle way of telling them to go the fuck home.

“Oracle, I think you’re right. Let’s call it a night.” He followed Robin’s trail, grappling up onto street level and from there on to the next skyscraper, before making his way back into the direction of Penitence Bridge. On the edge of the horizon, the sky was slowly turning from black to blue, with just a teeny, tiny hint of purple in the east. With any luck, they would be back in the Diamond before the first rush hour of the day.

Robin, it seemed, had different plans.

The shuriken missed his head by an inch and embedded itself firmly in the side of the building he had just been about to grapple up. When he whirled around to see what the hell was going on, the replacement was already less than two feet behind him.

“Goddamn it, Hood, just stop for a moment! Did that explosion kill your receivers?”

“No.” It had done mild damage, but not enough to make him miss Robin’s worried voice. One more voice to drown out and ignore. He had practice. “I’m not in a mood for a lecture, so save it for tomorrow and let’s just get back, alright?”

“A lecture?!” Within an instant Robin’s look of confusion morphed almost seamlessly into thinly veiled rage. “Hood, you’ve got _shrapnel_ embedded _in your_ _shoulder_!”

“What?” Dick and Barb were in perfect synchronicity.

“It’s not as bad as it sounds.” At least it hadn’t been until just now. The realization, the acknowledgement that there actually was a piece of debris stuck in his shoulder brought with it the stinging and grinding pain that he had previously been able to ignore by using his right arm only. It wasn’t the first time he had been injured in the field. It wouldn’t be the last. “If it were that bad, I wouldn’t be walking anymore. I’m still walking. I’ll be fine.”

He grappled off before anyone could object and hitched a ride on an early truck leaving from Miagani to the mainland. As expected, Robin was just behind him, looking ever more displeased by the minute. It only helped make him more furious and frustrated. _It’s just a tiny piece of shrapnel..._

***

Of course, Dick was already waiting by the door when he got there, just half past five. For once, Dick wasn’t smiling.

“Jay, are you—“

He pushed past him and caught the sharp gasp that followed as he made his way down the hall to the bathroom, but he couldn’t have cared less. Dick could be a true drama queen. He was not willing to freak out about this injury until he had seen it for himself.

The piece of shrapnel turned out to be a shard of metal from the spider robot. There was almost no blood, but that didn’t mean much. He peeled jacket off carefully, then removed the Kevlar vest slowly. The borders where the metal had struck through his shirt were tinged dark read, but it was already starting to dry. He took off the helmet, set the tissue scanner to scan remotely and snapped a quick shot of the injury before putting the hood back on.

“Jesus Christ, Jason, you should have let Robin take care of this back on Founders.”

To his right, Dick looked pale with worry. Behind him, Barb simply shook her head.

“It’s only stuck an inch deep, Dickie. I’ll be fine.”

“Not unless you get it cleaned out properly,” Robin objected. The small bathroom was getting severely crowded. “At least let one of us—“

“No.” This was not negotiable. He had enough of a hard time looking at his scars every time he changed clothes. He wasn’t going to let Robin see him like this. Or Barb. Or, heaven forbid, Dick. He had never liked Bruce’s game of ‘one question per stitch’. He was going to appreciate a hundred per stitch even less and he really didn’t want to punch any of them in the face tonight. “Go home, all of you. I’ll meet you at the clock tower tonight and we can pick up where we left off.”

_Preferably with the case and not with this._

“Like hell.” Robin took off his cowl, cape and gauntlets, then reached for the disinfectant on the counter. “These two,” he pointed at Barb and Dick, “will wait in the living room, while I stitch you up. No ‘buts’, ‘ifs’ and ‘whys’.”

 _This cannot be fucking happening._ He felt his fingers curl around the edge of the sink. It was either that, or punch someone. “What makes you think that I would let _you_ of all people stitch me up?”

“Because I’m the one with the least emotional baggage when it comes to you. And have you ever gotten stitches from Dick? You _don’t_ want that.” Robin apparently did not mind the thinly veiled hostility. He was already sorting out bandages, gauzes, needle and thread, while Barb and Dick shot each other glances that proved they had no idea where that had come from either. “You might also have noticed that you’re outnumbered,” Robin added as he finished arranging the supplies neatly on the counter. “So it’s either just me or all three of us. Pick your poison.”

He shot a quick look at the other two. Both Barb and Dick looked ready to fight tooth and claw. Great. He had done it. Cornered, surrounded and outnumbered in his own territory. _Fan-fucking-tastic._

“Just cleaning and stitches?”

“Just cleaning and stitches and then we’re gone,” Robin confirmed. Whatever aggressiveness had lingered under his words before had vanished into thin air. “No talking. No questions. Just cleaning and stitches. I promise.”

With a deep sigh, Jason unclenched his fists and sat down on the rim of the bathtub. _Fucking poison picked._

“Alright, both of you, out.”

“But Tim—“

“Richard...” And there it was again. The tone that channeled Bruce. Jason wasn’t surprised when he saw Dick turn and leave, shooting one last worried glance in Jason’s direction before closing the door behind him. Barb had already taken the hint.

Now it was just the two of them and Jason felt his muscles freeze over. _Best get this done quickly,_ not-Robin suggested and he couldn’t agree more. His hands reached for the hem of his shirt as if in a trance, pulling the sweat-soaked fabric up past his ribs and over his head, careful not to move the part on his left shoulder.

He could feel more than hear the sharp intake of breath from Robin and he felt naked. More naked than he actually was. More naked than he had felt in a long time. His fingers clutched onto the fabric of his pants, an instinctive reaction to resist the urge to try and wrap his arms around his torso, to try and shield the worst damage from this unwanted second pair of eyes. Then again, was there even a worst damage? All of his scars were horrible in their own way. Any moment now the questions would start. What caused that scar? How did you get that? What did he do to you? He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t sure he ever would be.

By the time his mind had come up with an insulting bark to fling at his replacement, Robin had already gone to work. His hands were quick, yet careful, working with a precision and softness that Bruce had never had.

The piece of metal came out first, slowly and carefully and he gritted his teeth against the pain. It landed unceremoniously in the bathtub to his left and Jason took a moment to look at the offending shrapnel in unveiled disgust. One inch of it was red from his blood, but the edges looked smooth at least, not jagged. With any luck, it had come out clean in one piece.

Next came the part he really hated: the prodding and probing, pincers prying open the wound, a flashlight shining inside, trying to glimpse any leftover fragments. True to his word, Robin remained silent as a grave throughout it all and Jason was grateful for that. From what he could see landing in the tub, there had been pieces of his shirt in the wound, but no pieces of metal. He knew the inspection was over when the sharp sting of disinfectant spread through the wound and made him wince just a little.

“Sorry about that.”

“Have had worse.” He really had. Absinth. Vinegar. Insufficiently diluted bleach. Proper disinfectant really wasn’t all that bad in comparison. “Bleeding badly?”

“No, not much.”

That was good. That meant it hadn’t hit anything truly important. He sat still as a rock as the needle and thread started going through his skin in quick, sure stitches, followed by another rub of anti-bacterial chemicals and a generously sized piece of gauze.

“Better put some tape on that, too, or it will be off by tomorrow.” Because even now, four years after escaping from hell and a year after conquering, or at least silencing, his very own hellspawn, he still couldn’t get a single dreamless night. He had stopped buying new pillow covers and sheets months ago. Still, he had not intention of ripping the gauze off a freshly stitched wound any time soon. Maybe Robin already knew. Maybe he didn’t care. Either way, he did not ask and Jason could appreciate that. He watched the leftover packaging from the gauze disappear in the trash can.

“Done.” Just as quickly as he had retrieved them, Robin put the medical supplies back where they belonged. For a moment Jason wondered how he knew just where to put everything until it occurred to him that his own sorting system was a leftover of Bruce’s and Alfred’s strict gear assortment OCD. There was a good chance the apple hadn’t fallen very far from the tree with Robin 1.0 and 3.0 either. He shrugged back into his hoodie, careful not to put any pressure on the shoulder. It would hurt more than enough once he woke up around noon.

“I haven’t talked to Dick yet, but he’ll probably stay with Barb and me at the manor for tonight.”

“You really rebuilt the entire damn thing?” Jason raised an eyebrow at him. He had heard about it on the news, but why anyone in their right mind would be crazy enough to do that was beyond him. It was like painting a giant target on your back.

“I spent most of my time growing up in boarding schools, sleeping in dormitories,” Robin explained with a shrug. “Had a room in my parents’ place of course, but I never had much time to stay there. The manor... the manor was home. That’s where I felt safe and comfortable. That’s where I would go to bed thinking ‘this is my room, my place, my home’. We’ve all lost so much already... I wanted to have a little bit of it back at least.”

Except they hadn’t really lost all that much. Bruce was not dead, Jason was sure of it. Still, this was pretty high on the list of ‘things we do not talk about or else we’re all going to murder each other’. And now was definitely not the right time and place. To his right, Robin looked at him with a sadness Jason had never seen in him before.

“You are always welcome there, you know.”

Robin was out the door and on his way to the living room before he could reply, which was probably good since the first thing that had come to his mind was ‘and you are welcome to fuck off’. With one last look at the metal shrapnel, Jason reached for his tooth brush. By the time he returned to the living room, the others were gone. His things were exactly where he had left them, together with a hand-written note from Oracle that told him he was welcome to grab all the data she and Nightwing had been working on from the servers later. Through the wide windows of the living room, the first rays of dawn shone through a city that was eerily quiet. Down the hall, the sight of his bed with the sheets all rumpled had him scan the room for intruders for just a second before he remembered that he had let Robin rest there earlier. He stashed away his gear in the hidden panel of the closet, activated the safety installed on his apartment and climbed out of his boots, pants and hoodie, and into the sheets with one last glance around the room. Old habits died hard. Somehow, he was still expecting someone to try and murder him in his sleep.

Then again, someone had already tried to murder three of them tonight. Tried and failed miserably.

Because Gotham.


	5. One Step Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halloween is over, the work is not. It never is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter was originally supposed to arrive on Thanksgiving. Then crunch time came. And a very important exam. And pre-Christmas season. I am honestly sorry for how long it took me to write this one (and for the fact that I haven’t properly proof-read any of the chapters in this story yet). Hope you’ll still enjoy.  
> As a small apology treat, here’s the timeline I use for all of my Batman stories, as deduced from what we learn in-game:   
> http://docdro.id/YQGZEyT

The clock read 12:06, but his body felt like 06:00. His apartment also looked like 06:00, thanks to the heavy clouds hanging over Gotham. He had heard the rain hammering against his bedroom window even before he had opened his eyes. His next sensation had been the smell of a faint undertone he could only describe as a disturbing mix of aftershave and Gotham Bay on the pillow, and the unfamiliar scent had sent him shooting upright, vaulting off and ducking behind the side of the bed that faced the wall, a perfect cover position from which to survey his apartment. Someone had been in his safehouse, in his bedroom no less, while he had been asleep. His mind had gone halfway down the long laundry list of people that had good reason to want him dead and his right hand had curled around the spare gun hidden on the underside of the bed, when the hammer finally dropped.

“Fuck me. Fuck PTSD. Fuck paranoia. Fuck, fuck, FUCK!”

His left arm shot up automatically to punch the sheets only for his shoulder to answer with a sting sharp as a dagger. “And FUCK those goddamn stitches!” With a loud sigh, Jason rolled over to lean against the bed.

“No one’s broken into my safehouse. No one was here while I slept. No one. _No one_. Absolutely no one.” He kept whispering the words until they were finally louder in his head than the ever-present laughter that echoed in his skull. _No one has broken into your safehouse, Jason, get a fucking grip. Robin was here. Robin, Nightwing and Oracle. You let Robin sleep off some Hatter hypnosis. That’s why the pillow smells weird. You had shrapnel in your shoulder, Robin stitched it up. That’s why your shoulder fucking hurts. Get a fucking grip._

Easier said than done. He traded the pistol for the cigarettes and lighter from the bedside table, only to find the little box all but empty. One cig left. This day was starting out fabulously. He lit his little morning dose of cancerous death with a sigh and got up slowly.

“Alright, Jason, priorities.”

The alarm system came first. Just because there was a good, reasonable explanation for the obvious didn’t mean that his underlying sense of something being off couldn’t be right. He double- and triple-checked both the cam footage and the motion sensors and was relieved to find that no one had even touched his apartment since Robin and the others had left at sunrise. He was going to take paranoia over a fricking ambush any time of the day.

Next was the tracker system. It took him half a minute to find his phone – sometime during the ‘night’ he must have flung it across the room – behind a pot of nearly dead plants. Perhaps Barbara really had been on to something when she had given him a protective case for the flimsy thing for his birthday. The trackers were buried in his calendar. To any outsider, they would have looked just like little birthday reminders or something similar. _John, Jack, Joan. All green. Thank you, baby Jesus_. He took another long drag from the cigarette and frowned when he realized he had already gone through half of it. On the bright side, it had just been a dream.

_Oh, but what a glorious dream it was, am I right, Todders?_

The pictures came back with a vengeance. Two beds in a dirty hospital. Tiles everywhere. In the bed on the left, Nightwing, lying still and completely motionless, his face blank and white as marble, heart monitor beeping softly, but slow enough to indicate unconsciousness, bedside table littered with empty candy wrappers. In the bed on the right, Robin thrashing about wildly, pieces of Arkham-militia-stamped metal embedded in every limb, counting down, always down, in frantic whispers in an endless loop. Between them, Oracle, tears on her face but cold fury in her eyes as she looked up at him. _“You were supposed to keep them safe! It should be you in one of these beds. It should be you in_ both _these beds!”_

 _“Oh... women...”_ The doctor that entered the room shook his head with a slight chuckle. He greeted Jason with a blood-red grin on a bleached face. _“Always such drama queens! Always asking for the impossible! But don’t you worry, Todders. I’m sure once Night-brat and Babybird here are dead, she’ll come running... well... rolling right back to you. Not like she’ll have many options left...”_

“Not real. Just a nightmare.” He looked at the calendar once more. All green. “Not real. They’re ok. Not real.” But, god, had it _felt_ real. It had felt real enough to make him bolt from his sleep not even an hour after he had gone to bed and then once more not even two hours after that. He didn’t remember much in between that and the last nightmare in which Joker had been the one treating his shrapnel wound, substituting hydrochloric acid for disinfectant and dirty rags for gauze, but judging from the way he had torn up his blanket, the rest of his dreams hadn’t been much better.

 _Fuck paranoia. Fuck PTSD._ These were the days when he wished he had enough balls between his legs to just grab that gun and put a bullet through his head.

By the time he had managed to grab a set of exercise clothes from the closet and go to the bathroom, the cig was all but gone. He ditched the stub in the trash bin, where it landed right next to the broken tooth brush that proved Nightwing had not in fact been poisoned, and went to examine the shrapnel wound. Through some miracle, the gauze was still on and not the least bloody. He made a mental note to scratch all exercises that would put stress on his left shoulder from his training regimen for the next seven days and got changed quickly. The less time spent looking at the scars, the better.

Ten minutes later, the first two cups of coffee were brewing in the kitchen, accompanied by the faint humming of his half-disassembled laptop as it ran the search algorithms he had set up, and the ever-annoying yapping of GCN’s afternoon anchors. On the bright side, no one had died of Halloween candy poisoning. Yet. On the not so bright side, someone at BPD had leaked all investigative material, including Laurie’s full name, picture and address to the press. If their number one suspect hadn’t been in the wind yet, he was now. Dick was going to be pissed. He wondered if he had had a chance to go back to Blüdhaven and examine Laurie’s apartment before all evidence had mysteriously vanished, but Jason sincerely doubted it.

Next, Jason took a minute in between exercise blocks to have his first cup of black-as-night coffee and look at the search results his My Alibi algorithm had brought up. On the bright side, no one on the serious side of reporting had caught wind of the fact that Robin had been involved in the abduction of four young women in the Coventry. All sources that had mentioned it were either conspiracist blogs or tabloids so far down the credibility scale only a lobotomized monkey could possibly have believed them. 0:3 for Red Hood and camera footage sabotage. On the not so bright side, one of the girls had washed up near the lighthouse on Founders Island, bludgeoned to death. He booted up the link to the Batcomputer servers and watched as the loading status bar slowly approached one-hundred percent.

“Alright, Oracle. Let’s see how much access you’ve given me.”

To his surprise, the answer seemed to be ‘all the access’, at least as far as he could tell. He didn’t have the time to go into every folder, but judging from the fact that he had even managed to get into Robin 3.0’s training files back from his earliest days with Bruce with nothing more than the login information she had given to him and the code generated by his helmet, he doubted he had any less access than Dick. The thought was both heartwarming and infuriating at the same time. He was pretty sure no one should trust him that much. It was reckless, irresponsible, dangerous, and all the other adjectives Bruce had always been so fond of using in his lectures to Jason. Whatever not-a-grave Bruce was currently in, Jason hoped he was rolling over in disgust. Grabbing the pieces of data off the Coast Guard database, Gotham City’s weather stations and the GCPD file on Alice Doe number one was a piece of cake. He fed them into the simulation program Bruce had come up with at some point to track evidence washed up by the currents of Gotham Bay, downed his second dose of caffeine and went back to his crunches. With any luck, they would have narrowed down a point of origin for Alice’s body by sundown.

***

Nightfall had never come so late. He didn’t know whether to blame it on the lack of sleep, the monotony of working with a crippled training regimen or the severe lack of nicotine as he had rummaged through the drawers of his safehouse only to realize that all his tobacco was in his apartment on the other side of town. Either way, the day had dragged on and left him irritated, twitchy and dying for a smoke. Some fucked up, masochistic part of his brain had decided to spoil the last bit of peace and satisfaction – lunch – by having him run the boot print from the Royal against a data set he had hoped never to tap into again. It had come back instantly positive. His lunch box and the bento in it had ended up against the wall behind his TV to the sound of his enraged cry. He was going to find the bastard. He was going to find him and murder him. For real, this time.

Apparently, the fury was still legible in his face when he dropped into the Clock Tower through the roof access hatch at 19:00 sharp. It took Dick all of half a second to swallow the cheerful greeting he had had on his lips.

“What did I do this time?”

 _Oh great..._ now Dick was blaming himself. They were never going to hear the end of it. “You... nothing. Your dearest police buddies in Blüd deserve a one-way-ticket to the morgue, though.”

“I know. It’s bad.” Dick’s shoulders slumped in disappointment and fatigue and the sound of defeat in his voice spoke volumes as to the gravity of the situation.

Dick Grayson never gave up easily. This was not the first time some corrupt cop in Blüd had ruined a perfectly fine case. It wasn’t the first time Nightwing’s hands had been tied while a killer walked free. It wasn’t the first time Jason was wondering why Dick voluntarily put himself through his hell, either. He had asked before, even back when he had still been Robin. The answer of course had been that he wanted to do this ‘the right way’. ‘By the book’. Back then, Jason had merely rolled his eyes at his brother’s naivety and his ridiculously misguided, blind optimism. This time, he actually wanted to punch him. How had he not gotten any wiser in almost eight years?

“Well, on the bright side, nobody’s died yet.” The smile on Barbara’s face was small, but genuine, as she rolled into the room with a tray of sandwiches in her lap. Behind her, Robin trailed, already suited up and ready to go, except for the piece of toast in his hands. His vitals were steady and within expected range, his movements and reflexes sharp as ever. Whatever the Hatter had done to him, a good night’s sleep had fixed it. Jason envied the bastard. “Also, lunch!” Before either of them could protest, Barbara had pushed a sandwich into Dick’s and Jason’s hands. “Not to mention, someone was nice enough to set up a simulation regarding the Hatter evidence while most of us were asleep, so now we know where and when First Alice’s body was dumped.”

“Her name was Diana Glen. And you’re welcome.” His gaze flicked quickly between Oracle, who was bringing up all the relevant case files, Robin, who almost successfully managed to suppress every sign of guilt at the mention of the dead girl (almost, Jason had noticed very early on that discomfort seemed to make the muscles in his chest twitch ever so slightly), and Dick, who for some weird reason had managed to devour his lunch in all of five seconds, but still hadn’t made the slightest move to suit up, while Red Hood was ready to go, but hadn’t even considered eating his food yet. That in and of itself felt all wrong. It should have been the other way around. Six years ago, it _would_ have been the other way around. Heck, he would probably have grabbed any spare sandwiches for himself and stored them safely in the bottomless pit that was his stomach. Now, all he could do was flip up the helmet and slowly nibble on the edge of the bread. As sandwiches went, it was pretty good, but his stomach was still doing back flips.

_Not poisoned. Not laced. Calm the fuck down. Not real._

On the main screen, the map of Gotham unfolded in all of its glory. The spot where Alice’s body had washed up flashed in soft white. Slowly, a trail of dots led up the current and across the river. Jason felt his mouth freeze around a bite of sandwich at the same time Robin sighed. “Bristol? Really?”

This was definitely NOT good news. Jason knew the islands like the back of his hand, but the mainland, with its expensive suburban neighborhoods and its artsy museums had always been way above his pay grade back in his days on the street. He had tried to make up for it as Robin, forcing himself to patrol the unfamiliar territory if the night was quiet enough, but even meticulous, Batman-taught recon could not substitute for true exploration, for actually living on those streets. Even with the vast database at their disposal, there were bound to be at least fifty hiding places per mile that none of them had ever seen.

“I’ll start digging into my databases, get you lists of abandoned hat shops, costume shops, book stores and the like.” Obviously, Oracle was not the slightest bit daunted by the news. Her fingers were already flying across the keyboard. “In the meantime, we have two more cases that need our immediate attention.” Which meant splitting up. He could hear in the way she said it that she didn’t like the prospect at all. Judging from the grim faces around him, Oracle was not the only one. “First one’s for you, Dick. GCPD IDed the victims from Killingers. Turns out they were informants for the BPD. There were two more, also all dead. Second crime scene’s in Blüd, but it’s the same MO.”

“So, now the Swans are not only smuggling weaponry, they are also tying up loose ends using the Arkham Knight’s leftover technology,” Dick growled. “They are in for it.”

“Break some bones for me when you find them,” Jason added. On the holo screens, pictures of the evidence collected at both crime scenes stared back at him mockingly, red-and-gray shards of metal stained with blood. “Those spiders were never meant to harm anyone, let alone have C4 strapped to their backs. They were maintenance robots, for fuck’s sake!”

“Maintenance robots? Like... for repairs and cleaning?” Oracle raised an eyebrow at him. Slightly lower, her lips curled into a tiny smile. “I am trying to image that on GCPD’s list of confiscated militia gear: tank, drone, tank, rifles, jammer, drone, roomba.”

“Laugh it up, Oracle.” He knew it was funny. He could see it in the way Tim’s and Dick’s faces mirrored Barb’s, in the suppressed chuckles. It really was funny and he wanted to smile, but the laughter died inside his throat. Those robots had never been meant to be weapons and it had felt good having a completely harmless and simple tinkering project to work with. A little oasis of peace in the constant preparations for death and destruction. Seeing them turned into deadly explosive deliveries was just wrong, like someone strapping explosives to a child and sending them off to war. “I take it the other case is for me? What do we have?”

“Another woman with her vocal chords removed.” With a few clicks, Oracle brought up the case file on the map. This time, the crime scene was in the Miagani Funland. “Name’s Jessica Fraser, age nineteen. She’s still alive and currently being treated in Gotham General, but other than that, everything matches the first victim you found.”

“Two bodies in two nights...” He skimmed the information quickly. From the cut on the girl’s throat to the Dictaphone left in her pocket, everything looked painfully familiar. “Looks like someone is on a schedule. I’ll go and catch up. Talk to you later.” He retrieved the grapple from its holster and disappeared through the access hatch before any of them had a chance to object.

***

In the end, he had not caught up. The crime scene had been a mess, a battlefield of broken glass and furniture, too many footprints to count (most of which he was sure were from GCPD officers) and enough dirt and grime to muddle any usable DNA traces. Whoever this new psychopath was, he knew how to cover his tracks.

 _He or she_.

Somehow, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something deeply personal about this new string of crimes. Maybe the killer did not just use a voice modulator to hide their own voice. Maybe something had happened to his or her vocal chords and this was some weird kind of revenge. He had made a mental note to research links between the two victims later, before grappling off into the night, patching into the GCPD radio feed to take over the ordinary patrol duties that would normally have fallen on Robin. _Shots fired here. Dead victim found there. Gang fight reported at the docks._ The standard fare. It was almost insultingly mundane and easy, but then again, the majority of his nights as Robin had been like that, too. It wasn’t every day that some super-villain tried to implement a grand master plan to ruin the city and as much as his temper flared at the lack of heavy hitting, his shoulder was grateful for the rest.

He just hoped they would manage to wrap up all Halloween cases before Thanksgiving.

***

November 2nd brought another special call with it, as expected. The graveyard was quiet as the dead inside it, as he grappled in to assess the scene. Next to two empty graves, the dead bodies of a man and a woman rested against the bleak, gray headstones. Instead of a chiseled epitaph, the texts had been written in blood. Instead of speaking fondly of the two deceased, the epitaphs described them as a power-hungry, abusive bastard and a double-crossing, cheating slut. In first person no less. A quick analysis confirmed what he had already guessed: the blood belonged to the two victims. It also confirmed that Oracle had correctly deciphered the riddle list left at the Royal.

November 2nd. _Two wanted to have the last word. I’ll let them be my guests. I shall deliver ink and quill and put their skills to the test._

Plan Your Epitaph Day.

He combed over the crime scene twice, examining every patch of the four-by-four-inch grid carefully, but came up empty. The rain had washed away pretty much everything, except for one set of prints that was so recent, Jason was sure whoever had left it had been there not even half an hour before him. _Size fourteen_. The mud had been too slick to maintain the thread pattern, but he didn’t need it. He was not going to chase a Ghost.

***

On November the 5th, Book Lovers Day, Robin had had the dubious honor of examining the five dead bodies found in the Gotham University 24/7 library. It was Oracle who had insisted on having Red Hood and Robin switch assignments each day, to prevent any inconvenient forest-for-the-trees effects and ensure that each could recover from their latest scratches and bruises. Judging from the ever-more haggard look of Nightwing’s face and the growing fatigue in his eyes when he called in for beginning- and end-of-day reports, it was a sound strategy. Dick looked like hell and the fact that his investigations had been no more successful than Tim’s or Jason’s, in large part thanks to whatever lousy rat was systematically destroying evidence at BPD, had clearly taken its toll on him.

“You should really let one of us give you a hand, you know.”

“Thank you, Tim, but I have it under control.” Nightwing’s voice sounded like acetone poured onto gravel. Jason didn’t even get the chance to shout ‘field names’ through the shared comm. line. “You two have important work to do in Gotham. I’ll deal with Blüdhaven. I promised Bruce I wouldn’t let him down.”

 _And besides, the only time he had asked for help, he had been turned down, anyway._ Jason swallowed hard at the memory. The words were still stuck in his head, syllable by syllable, and every time his mind chose to revisit them, he could feel the chill creep back into his bones, the pain stretching through his shoulders, back and ankle, accompanied by Joker’s drilling laughter and the Knight’s low chuckle. He should have said yes. He still should, but the words were stuck in his throat.

Fat lot of good he was as a brother.

***

On November 8th, the stitches finally came out. Jason sighed with relief as the thin cord landed in the trash bin, and turned to examine his shoulder. The wound had closed cleanly, with only a few slightly discolored patches of skin hinting at the points where the needle had entered. As stitches went, these were second only to Alfred’s. He made sure to disinfect and moisturize the skin before slipping into his Red Hood gear. With a little bit of luck, they would barely scar. Not that one more would have made a great difference.

His cheer at the improvement died the moment he arrived at the canteen of the Martha Wayne Foundation’s Bleake Island branch. The neighbors had reported a strange and horrid smell coming through the ventilation shaft. This time, he got there before GCPD did. Given that the first officer to arrive on scene promptly lost his lunch on the floor, it was probably a good thing.

The employee’s corner of the cafeteria was a mess. Where only ten hours before social workers, psychologists, doctors and management staff had enjoyed a hot lunch, parts of eight dismembered bodies littered the round table and its chairs. The last time he had seen a crime scene like that, he had turned off his tracker to solve the problem without Bruce’s intervention. It had turned out just smashing.

 _Adults. These limbs belong to adults_ , not-Robin kept on repeating like a broken record, as Red Hood went through the room cataloguing arms, legs, blood spatter and any signs of struggle. _They are not from kids, and they are not stitched together randomly. Get a grip._

They found the heads locked in the main freezer in the kitchen, each of them with a note stapled to their foreheads listing the names of their spouses. He recognized the name of the receptionist, as written on the sign on the front desk, and ran the rest of them against records of any and all ‘Wayne’ branded corporations throughout the city. _Bingo._

“Why would anybody do this?” The officer that had followed him into the kitchen had his hand clasped in front of his pale mouth, clearly trying not to join his colleague. As admirable as the sentiment was, he was still trudging over Red Hood’s previously pristine crime scene. Jason scowled at him under the mask.

“Apparently, they all cheated on their wives. Who all worked under Wayne branding.” But then again, November 8th was not ‘Cheat On Your Wife Day’. According to Oracle, it was ‘Cook Something Bold Day’. He retrieved the leftovers trash can from next to the garbage chute and set his scanners to search for human DNA. “Well, there’s no blood in this bin, but the ribs have male human DNA traces all over. I guess now we know where the rest of them went.”

It took the cop – _Officer Harris_ , not-Robin noted – all of four seconds to fully understand the implications, before he threw up on the kitchen floor. With an exasperated sigh, Red Hood grabbed him by the collar, dragged him outside into the common seating area and sat him right next to his fellow officer, who still looked like death reheated. All around them, the walls were covered in children’s drawings, bright streamers and happy colors. He prayed that the poor homeless kids who had come here to have a hot meal would never find out what had been in their food today. “Sit down, take a breath and call it in. I’ve had enough people vomit over my crime scene. You’re not helping.” He turned and was already on his way back to the kitchen when the sounds came through his receivers. Apparently, even after twelve years with Batman, some people still did not understand that bats had awesome hearing.

“Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with this guy? He talks like this is just Tuesday for him.”

“It is Tuesday.”

“Gee, thanks, smartass. But, seriously, what kind of fucked up shit must this guy have seen to just stroll through... _this_... like there’s nothing wrong with this place?”

As he bent down to examine a torn piece of fabric stuck to the back door of the kitchen, Jason bit down hard on his lip _. You don’t want to know, Officer Harris. You really, really don’t._

***

If the 8th had been bad, November 11th was worse. Much, much worse. The day had started lousy when GCN had reported the first fatalities from the Halloween food poisoning, most of them children under the age of ten. That in and of itself was sad enough. He had immediately hacked Gotham General’s medical records to get details. The fact that their metabolisms had just shut down as if someone had flicked a switch did not make it better. Whatever this poison was, it acted sudden and fast. Even the good news that Oracle had managed to identify one half of the poison’s components – a mutated form of Santa Priscan mamba venom, which was known to cause death-like paralysis – did not do much to lighten his mood. They still needed to figure out the other half.

“Whatever it is, it is too badly degraded or mutated for me to find a match in the database,” Oracle explained in exasperation as the molecules turned on the screens in front of them. “It just doesn’t make any sense. I ran this against every database we know. Nothing. You didn’t get anything on your end, either, right?”

“Right.” He remembered the sinking feeling in his stomach as his database search had come up negative. Even with the fuzzy match ratio set to find anything down to sixty-six percent matches he had not been able to identify the second component. “Whatever it is, it’s not something sold on the black market.”

“It’s not even supposed to be functional!” With a few clicks, Oracle brought up another file. It was a report by a chemical research institute in Keystone. “I called in a few favors, had someone with more chemical expertise look at this substance. It has no qualities that should cause any change in the human body. None. Even in combination with Santa Priscan mamba poison this stuff should not be deadly.”

“But it is.” There was no sugar-coating it. This was no longer a bad Halloween trick. It was cold, calculated murder on a massive scale. “We are missing something.” He brought up the numbers on his visor and ran a quick comparison. “Even adjusting for individual variations and statistical anomalies, the numbers don’t add up. Only about fourteen percent of all comatose patients have died. There’s got to be a third factor at work here, or the number would be much higher.”

“It _is_ much higher in Blüdhaven,” Dick chimed in through the comm. He had not activated his video link, but Jason could guess why. He knew the way Dick’s voice sounded when he had just finished crying. It was a sound so far from his usual brand of enthusiasm and indomitable optimism that it was downright terrifying to behold. Jason had only heard it twice in his life – once many years ago when Dick had, after some coaxing, told him about how one of his colleagues had been shot dead right in front of him while on patrol, and once when he had left a voice mail on the phone of Jason’s apartment, apologizing for the horrible idea that had been his latest birthday party. It was a sound he would never forget. Like his mother’s drug-veiled tears, his father’s angry shouts, Bruce’s disappointed scorn and Joker’s grating laughter it was a sound that had dug itself into the depths of his soul and taken a place among the top five voices he never hoped to hear again.

“Blüdhaven General reported thirty-eight percent dead. Saint Margaret’s forty-two. Saint Jerome’s forty-one.”

“Then maybe it’s not so much about the patients as it is about the hospitals.” Robin reached forward to type away at the keyboard and Jason couldn’t help raising an eyebrow in confusion. Barb did not usually allow other people to touch her tech. “I’m setting up a new algorithm on the Batcomputer. We’re gonna let it compare all additional substances – stomach contents, medication, you name it. Something’s got to pop eventually.”

The only thing that popped that night was a float at the annual Veteran’s Day Parade, releasing eleven pellets filled with poisonous gas into a crowd of former soldiers commemorating their fallen comrades and trying to help each other cope with their PTSD.

Wherever Julian Day was, Red Hood hoped he packed a bullet-proof vest.

***

For November 14th, Operating Room Nurse Day, they had taken all precautions imaginable. Just as for Veteran’s Day, they had informed GCPD and BPD of the incoming threat and both authorities had stationed additional personnel at hospitals throughout their respective cities. Their task had been simple: guard the doctors and alert Oracle immediately if anything suspicious happened. They had also sent out word to all hospitals to inform their staff, raise their awareness. They had done what they could.

For the rest of the night, Robin had continued combing the mainland for traces of Tetch. All he had found was another dead Alice, her limbs twisted like a broken doll, stuck in a glass house filled with white roses that had been painted red with her blood. When Robin had called it in, his voice shaking ever so slightly with the guilt that still ate away at him, Oracle had been quick to remind him that at least this time they had better chances of finding some useful evidence and catching the bastard, what with the body not having been submerged for hours. As always, Barbara’s calm and yet determined demeanor had done the trick. Perhaps it was half a lifetime of talking to Bats and Robins that had given her this magical gift. Perhaps it was just dumb luck or natural talent. Either way, Robin had taken a deep breath and set to analyzing the scene. The traces of soot he had found at the base of her hair and the tiny splinters of wood he had dug out from underneath her cold finger nails had narrowed down the search area and that was the best news they had heard all night.

At the same time, Red Hood had followed another anonymous call to GCPD, revealing the location of another poor girl. Kelia Cortney Groves was only thirteen years old and had been singing for her church’s gospel choir since she was old enough to talk. When he bent down to help her up and out of the closed down, rotting theater she had been dumped in, the girl had cowered away in fear, wincing as her feeble attempt at screaming had produced no sound, but aggravated her injury. And so, Jason had resolved to simply sit down in front of her, a full body’s distance away to give her some space, while scanning the surroundings for any sign of life. The dead underbelly of Founders was never a good place to be alone in. Particularly if you were a young girl that could neither fight nor scream. A sharp glare and quick aiming of his guns was all it had taken to scare off the few maggots that had found them, thinking they had caught some easy prey. He had waited until the police had taken her away before pushing play on the Dictaphone. Whoever said that repetition made everything seemed easier was a dirty liar.

In Blüdhaven, Dick had finally managed to step on the wrong set of toes, earning himself a temporary immediate suspension, including the request to hand in his uniform, gun and gear. Whoever had gotten his superiors to put him on ice must have been high up in the Blüdhaven food chain, because not a single one of his colleagues had dared to protest the DIA’s decision. In return, Nightwing had broken into the evidence locker and saved the last bit of evidence they had not yet been able to destroy from a death by fire and shredder, before taking his frustration out on the nearest drug gang. It was not a good night to be a dealing scumbag in Blüdhaven.

Only once the night was nearly over and all four of them were ready to call it quits did the call finally come in. Their message to Blackgate had gotten ‘lost’. The killer hadn’t. Sometime between the last security check at five and the start of the early day shift at six, someone had rigged the ventilation system to blow carbon monoxide all over the infirmary. All fourteen medical personnel on duty were dead.

***

Three days later, a ship of the Coast Guard fished Damian Laurie, also known as Sweet Tooth, aka the son of a bitch who thought Joker venom was a delicious flavor for chocolate-cherry cake and weird hybrid poisons made for good candy filling, out of the Bay near the Bleake Island lighthouse, just past sundown. Or, to be more precise, they salvaged what was left of him. It was barely enough for an ID and Jason cursed at the sight of the torn flesh. This night was starting out fucking great.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” the Coast Guard in front of him stammered. “What in the fucking Bay has that many teeth?”

“Waylon Jones.” He had seen these kinds of wounds before and more times than he liked. He remembered the first time he had encountered Croc during his run as Robin. Jones had been an abomination of a cannibalistic murderer even back then, although he had looked more like a man than a beast. Jason himself had not done his reputation at GCPD any favors that night when he had still happily chewed on his chilidog after wrapping the case up. Back then, no power on Earth or beyond could have made him turn down food.

Now, as he looked out onto the forgotten ruin of Ace Chemicals, whatever appetite he might have had vanished. Throughout the last seventeen days, more and more vagrants and prostitutes had been disappearing from Gotham’s streets and yet no one had ever even found so much as a trace of them. Of course they hadn’t. Ace had been declared a bio hazard zone almost a year ago, with no one allowed to come anywhere within twenty feet of the charred, toxic ruin. His mask’s filters would not protect him in there. Neither would any of their suits. Croc on the other hand... He remembered the reports from Iron Heights. If adverse environment and trauma accelerated Crocs mutation, made him more resistant and more dangerous, than he did not even want to imagine what Jones had become housing in there.

No, going after Croc was not an option, and that meant precisely one thing: he needed some bait.

Apparently, someone else had thought the exact same thing, only they had been trying, and succeeding, to bait a pack of rabid dogs. It was rare to find large groups of joggers on Crest Hill, the home of the spoilt and wealthy who usually could not be persuaded to move for any distance longer than their cars without actually having their butlers get the cars. It was even rarer to find a large group of joggers in fine business suits, torn apart by the side of a little forest stream. Having Robin find them on his daily evening jog before suiting up was really just the icing on the cake.

_It’s hard for these seventeen to find some green in this city, but maybe the top of the hill will take some pity?_

“Well, happy fucking Take A Hike Day,” Red Hood muttered through his comm. as he grappled off into the direction of Salvation Bridge.

This time, when they rendevouzed at the Clock Tower, no one accepted Barbara’s food offers.

***

At last, November 19th arrived. He woke up with a headache and a feeling like knives in his gut, watching the unlit candle on the bedside table as it stared him mockingly in his scarred face. He wasn’t sure why he had even bothered to buy it. There was nothing to celebrate. Nothing. If Bruce had never adopted him, he might have died on the streets, but there were worse fates than death. With a deep sigh, Jason reached for the pack of cigarettes he had only just rolled that morning and fed his cancer.

 _Good way to get yourself killed, too_ , not-Robin admonished. _You know bedding is flammable, right?_

“I really don’t fucking care.” He didn’t. He had accepted the inevitability of his untimely demise six Novembers ago, when Joker had first shown him that picture of Batman and the thief who was now wearing Robin’s colors. He had lived with it ever since, and while he was no longer shoving a gun in his face every other night, he had resigned himself to the thought that he’d be lucky to even make it to twenty-five, let alone thirty. What was that Billy Joel song? Only the good die young...

Perhaps he really was going to live to eighty, after all.

Either way, there was work to be done. He rolled his shoulders only to get a painful cracking sound in return from the one on the right. A second later, the searing pain spread from his clavicle all the way down his shoulder blade and into his spine and he bit down hard on his bottom lip to suppress the cry that had wanted to weasel its way out of his mouth. _Son of a fucking bitch..._ His shoulder felt like someone had torn his arm right from the socket, but he knew there was nothing he could do. Dislocated? Relocate. Cramps? Warm water and slow movements. Fucking nerve damage? Shut up, grit your teeth and hope that it passes. The hot shower helped take the edge off just a little, but it still hurt like hell by the time he made his way to the TV. From GCN’s live news broadcast, Vicki Vales brightest smile practically jumped through the screen.

“—Commissioner Cash has refused to comment on the source of the antidote, yet hospitals all throughout Gotham are expressing their gratitude to their mysterious guardian angel, who provided the serum that has successfully brought back two comatose children from nineteen days of potentially lethal food poisoning. Both Sartorius and Cale Anderson have confirmed that they are already mass producing the antidote as we speak and will distrib—“

He turned the device off quickly and leaned back on his couch. Son of a bitch had actually done it. He wondered where he had stashed the tech necessary to finish antidote calculations before the servers at the Clock Tower and Panessa, both of which had been set to the single-minded task of identifying  the missing link in this epidemic (done – the catalyst had turned out to be a specific preservative agent used in the IV fluids) and countering it (about eighty percent done). It narrowed down the list of potential BOOs considerably. Maybe an abandoned subway station. Or perhaps an old factory with a sufficiently sized basement. He had already looked into all the shell companies he had known about (and the ones he had not been supposed to know about, but had identified anyway) and had come up empty.

“Map’s getting smaller every day, Ghost...”

The phone was exactly where he had left it, next to the stupid candle. He decided to call Dick first, even if only to piss him off. Jason had never been an early bird himself, but Dick was a downright diva. He grinned as he looked at the clock. Only 1pm. _Wakey, wakey, princess..._ The call had nearly gone to voicemail by the time it finally connected.

“-ello?”

“Rise and shine, gorgeous!”

“Jay?” He could practically hear Dick roll his eyes on the other end of the line, followed by the sound of something heavy dropping from a small height and the distinct ruffling of bed sheets. “It’s... it’s just past 1pm, Jason, what the—“ For a few seconds, the line was quiet as a grave. Then, all of a sudden, his voice was up to defcon level 2. “Is everything ok? Is anyone hurt? Are you hurt?”

“Turn on the news.” He knew where this conversation was going to go and he didn’t want to hear it. “I trust you have that ‘hospitalized Blüdhaven orphans’ list ready at hand somewhere, because we ain’t got time until sundown.”

There was the quick breath and what sounded like the beginning of a word ont the other end, but Jason had already turned off the phone. They did _not_ have time. The only place anyone could find nineteen kids in the same place these days were the various hospitals throughout Blüdhaven and Gotham, but no for much longer now. Soon, once the antidote had been delivered, concerned parents would arrive to bring their children back home. Those that did not have a home would either disappear onto the street or would end up back in their assigned foster families. Either way, the good times of easy access to potential victims would soon be over for Julian Day. They had to beat him to the punch.

He was already slipping into his clothes and gear when Robin picked up.

“Good morning, Jason. A little early for a social call, don’t you think?”

Of course, the fucking replacement sounded as awake as ever. Tim _was_ an early bird, Barbara had warned him. He had returned the warning by making it very clear to her she’d be a widow if her husband ever got the idea to call him before his second cup of coffee.

“Turn on the news—“

“Already did. Getting suited up now. How about you take the orphanage in Gotham East, I take Gotham General, and after that we meet up at GCPD to watch Cash lock the bastard up?”

And, god, he hated it when he did that. Just like goddamn Bruce. Minus the scowling. Plus some courtesy. Still, it was a solid plan. Fate had smiled on them for once and there had been only two places in Gotham and one in Blüdhaven that currently housed exactly nineteen orphaned kids. “Happy hunting, replacement.”

“Good luck, jackass.”

***

He arrived at Saint Miriam’s Children’s Home a little less than half an hour later. Given that he had still not gotten around to building that bike he had been planning to make for the last three months, it was not exactly a small feat. To this day, hitching rides on trucks and trains to get from A to B faster made him feel just a little uncomfortable. In a container. On a container. There wasn’t much difference. It still brought up uneasy memories of pitch black cargo holds at open sea.

At the small facility, all hands were on deck as nurses and volunteers prepped their little patients for their upcoming deliverance from coma hell. The lead doctor coordinating the efforts gave him a quick nod. Everyone else was happy to ignore him. It was a far cry from the panic he had induced in them the first time he had shown up at Saint Miriam’s, delivering a half-dead girl who could not be older than ten to their doorstep. If you were going to be an orphan in Gotham, Gotham East with its mostly suburban neighborhoods that still hid a crap ton of ugliness under shiny paint was among the better places to be. He had left her in the care of the doctors, together with the cash needed to pay for her surgery and then some.

It had become an on-going thing ever since. At least once a month he would find a kid near death in some alley in the worst parts of town, and they would take his money and fix them, never asking, never caring where he had picked them up from. It was amazing how far a couple thousand bucks could go, even in a place like Gotham. He kept tabs on all of them. Some ended up back on the street. Some actually found a home. The punks that had usually tried to mess with the place – drug dealers, pimps and GCPS agents – had learned quickly that Red Hood was not messing around. Decent homes for orphans were gems in the desert and he was going to keep this one safe at any cost.

He had just arrived on the upper floor, ready to finish his patrol of the perimeter, when the mayhem started. Beneath his feet, the ground rumbled and trembled. Wood creaked painfully, as the walls buckled and gave way, tearing down the roof with them. He reacted on sheer instinct, grabbing the two tiny bodies closest to him and diving out the nearby window. He turned as gravity won its fight against his momentum, and landed flat on his back. The crowbar-induced scar screamed at the impact and he screamed with it, even as the building collapsed on itself. Ashes rained down on him and the two tiny shapes pressed against him and within a minute his display was clouded. He switched to tactical vision immediately. To his left and right, two little hearts beat faintly. It was the only sign of life within a radius of fifty meters.

Two. Out of Nineteen. Plus the doctors and nurses and the volunteers.

“Fuck, fuck, FUCK!”

He wasn’t exactly sure what to expect as his hands tore through the rubble until his gloves were in tatters and his skin was bloody. Certainly not survivors, and yet he kept on digging. Past the stones. Past the wood and the shingles. Past the dead, mangled bodies. Eventually, his hand hit solid metal and his already burned palms screamed at the scorching heat beneath them, but he had to know. He had to find out what had been strong enough to bring down the entire building.

When he finally found it, his body froze over. On the underside of the familiar circular shape, the badly etched out Arkham diamond and a much more refined pair of black and white swans glared mockingly back at him.

The scream that tore from his throat was hardly human. It was as if months of rage had been bottled up inside him and had finally found their outlet. His right foot hit the offending IED piece hard enough to light his toes up in agony, even despite his reinforced boots, but he didn’t feel it. As he looked at the destruction around him, at the little limbs – so fucking little – sticking out from underneath the debris here and there, all Jason felt was white, hot fury.

Someone was going to pay. Someone was going to die.


	6. Two Birds And A Bat With One Bullet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Thanksgiving approaching, Jason decides to try and put an end to as much of the on-going trouble in Gotham and Blüdhaven as he possibly can. But trauma always takes its toll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is one of the chapters I've been dying to write since I first started this fic.  
> No, this ship will not sail where one scene in the middle of this fic may hint it's going.
> 
> Yes, I promise this fic won't end with me dropping a bridge on everyone x_x

The last clip snapped shut with a quiet click. The sound echoed through the nearly empty corners of his little workshop like an explosion. He tried to ignore the trembling in his hands as he took a step backward and looked at the fruits of his labor in a mix of relief and horror.

Everything was in place. It looked disgustingly familiar. Like Santa Prisca all over. Once more, Jason Todd was glad for the seemingly eternal rain clouds hanging over Gotham and its surrounding lands. There was hardly any rain in Soledad, Santa Prisca.

“It’s not the same, Jason.” He tried to sound confident, but the fatigue that had long-since gripped hold of him finally took its toll. Judging by the clock on his phone and the number of new “are you alright, Red, at least let us know you’re still alive” messages from Dick he had been awake for more than forty hours now. It was starting to show. His voice sounded like broken glass. His body felt like broken glass. Every move hurt.

“It is only for one night.” At least he hoped so. He wasn’t sure he would be able to do this for more than one night. Heck, we wasn’t even sure if he’d be able to do it for one night. Every minute would be agony. Every second. But there was no time to waste. Today was November 23rd, one day to Thanksgiving. He had to do this today, or he would regret it deeply tomorrow.

“Do it, you coward! Do it, for them.” He looked again at the pictures next to the mirror above his workbench. He wished he had some pictures other than the coroner’s ID shots, but everything had gone up in flames together with Saint Miriam’s. His gaze travelled over the closed eyes, the cleaned scars and the blood-drained cheeks that lined the glass, trying to tell himself that there was nothing he could have done to save them, but even that tasted like a lie. There was plenty he could have done.

_I could have told them to outsource, to put some of the kids in another hospital so that there wouldn’t have been exactly nineteen in one place._

_I could have listened to Dick, instead of putting my own fucking psychosis first._

_I could have supervised the removal of all militia tech instead of feeling sorry for myself._

_I could have prevented this thirteen months ago and I didn’t._

“I’m sorry.”

The camouflage suit came first. It fit him just as well as the original one had, which was mildly horrifying in and of itself. The mere idea that they were still so similar... He took some comfort in the fact that there was no matted, blood-covered bullet between the Kevlar and his chest this time, but the scar was still there and it lit up like a furnace as the memories came back to him.

The boots were next, then the gauntlets. He double- and triple-checked the electronics. Scanner, encryption, communication... all systems were working just fine. The shoulder pads and breast plate fit like a third skin above his unhealthily pale body and the thick fabric of his suit. From the deflecting metal, the white Arkham diamond stared mockingly at the mirror and back at him.

He was so going to regret this...

The red helmet felt slightly better, although only slightly. He may have had to ditch the Red Hood costume for this, but at least he could keep the helmet. And the gadgets. The guns. The grapple. The flashbangs. The Batclaw, even if he only ever ended up using it for the zip-kicking move Dick had taught him all those years ago. At least he could keep some of Red Hood.

_No. At least Red Hood kept some of ME._

“Shut up!” He had wondered how long it would take. How long until that awful, ugly part of him that went through the world without any feelings of remorse or responsibility would rear its head from the depths of his mind. It was tempting. So very tempting...

 _Focus, Jason_ , not-Robin scolded and he turned his attention back to the pictures by the mirror. There was no time for daydreaming, no time for indulging. He had to do this. For them. According to the clock on his display, it was 19:28 hours. It was now or never.

“Call Goldie.”

The comm line opened almost instantly. He shouldn’t have been surprised. It was not like his contact had much left to do outside of vigilantism, now that he had been fired.

“Hello Red.” If Dick was still upset about his termination, he did not let it show. “I assume this isn’t a social call.”

“Very astute, Watson.” Leave it to Golden Boy Dick Grayson to at least try to have something resembling small talk before getting right down to business. He could practically hear the gears in Dick’s head turning as he tried to figure out how to best verbally tip-toe around his psychotic little brother. “I need a favor.”

“Oh god...” For a moment, the line was silent as a grave. _Definitely tip-toeing_. “Are you okay? Please tell me you’re not hurt or caught up in some death trap—“

“I need an assist for a major takedown at Whaler’s Arch, at 20:00 sharp. I’ll be at the crane graveyard one click south of the target five minutes before that.”

“WHAT?” He could have sworn there was the sound of a grapple disconnecting, followed by the rumble of shoulders rolling over concrete to break a sudden fall. The idea that his call had nearly made Nightwing face-plant against a roof somewhere brought a sadistic little smile to his face despite all the awful memories around him. “Whaler’s Arch?”

“Whaler’s Arch, 20:00 hours,” he confirmed.

“Jason, that’s in Blüdhaven!”

“First: field names. Second: so am I.” He took a deep sigh and reached for the blue visor. He was definitely going to regret this. “Third: please don’t be late, Nightwing.”

***

If he had had one good idea in the host of awful ones that led him to be here, it was meeting up early at Blüdhaven’s prime disposal ground for heavy machinery. They called it the crane graveyard, but truth was that anything bigger than a school bus that could not be dismantled and stored away immediately went there to die. It was a perfect watch post for snipers and the Swans had apparently agreed. He snuck up behind the marksman on the tallest crane quickly, choking him out until he went limp as a deboned fish before moving on to the three on the lower tiers. Letting them live was a risk. Accidentally setting off hidden heartbeat monitors would be even worse.

Nightwing arrived at precisely 19:55 hours. He could feel, more than hear him land just a few feet behind and even without eyes in the back of his head, he just knew that he was _strutting_ about the place like he owned it.

“Alright, Hood, just so we’re clear: I’m always happy to see you, but why the hell were you off comms for the last four days and what the hell are you doing in—“

He whirled around in a flash and grabbed the hand that reached out for his shoulder. Using his own weight as leverage, he had him down on the ground in an instant. Either Nightwing was losing his touch, or he really was taking the dismissal really, really badly. Or he was genuinely surprised. It was almost laughable. He drew one of his pistols quickly and pushed it right against the black cowl. “You’re getting sloppy, Nightwing. Didn’t the costume change give it away?” Beneath him, Dick Grayson froze immediately. For the first time ever, Jason saw true fear in those azure eyes. To one part of him, it was the ultimate display of beauty. To the rest of him, it was downright horrifying. Jason couldn’t blame him. He knew just how utterly demonic his voice sounded, all garbled by the voice modulator. “Or did you rely so much on your precious cowl that you didn’t even notice the different color scheme?”

“Jason...” He sounded about two feet tall. “Please. Put away. The Gun.”

“Field names, Nightwing.” He could do better than that. The pistol was back in its holster within a second. He got up quickly and took a few steps backward, watching in amusement as Nightwing back-flipped into a fighting stance and brought out the sticks. He flipped both his masks up and instantly grimaced at the foul stench that now assaulted his nose. Through the masks, it had been nothing but a mild undertone. Now, it was as if someone had pushed him straight into a tank full of diesel, rotten fish and sewage. “Jesus fucking Christ, showers in Blüd better use lemons instead of water. It’ll take me a week to get this out of the suit.” That of course would imply that he was going to keep the suit. Truth was he was very tempted by the idea of having a bonfire with it once this night was over, just like he had had with the original ones.

On the other side of the crane’s platform, Nightwing’s lips remained unmoving, locked into a scowl. Perhaps the day of reckoning really was nigh. He couldn’t remember Dick ever looking so sour.

“Relax, Goldie. I was just testing your reflexes.”

“And I suppose wearing _that_ is just a party gag?!”

“No.” He tucked the masks under his arms. “This is bait.”

“Bait?”

“Well... I thought we’d had already established that you and Oracle and Robin, you’ve pretty much ruined Red Hood’s reputation with the crooks in Gotham and Blüd. So... Knight it is.”

Dick nearly dropped his escrima sticks. He could tell from the way his hands suddenly twitched and his jaw actually fell. The lines on his face warped quickly from suspicion into abject horror. “Oh god... Jay—Red, that was a horrible idea! That was me, running my mouth and speaking without thinking. You know it. I know it. You don’t have to—“

“But I want to.” Not really. Maybe. A little. Partially. He wasn’t entirely sure himself. Contacting the Swans had been another one of those decisions he had taken in the spur of the moment, dictated by the feeling in his gut that he had to do something, anything really, to put an end to Penguin 2.0’s habit of selling the Knight’s leftover tech to psychopaths around the cities. Once the call had been over, he had spent the better part of an afternoon alternating between drawing up designs and ordering material, and throwing up and scolding himself for his decisions. Damned if you do. Damned if you don’t. “Besides, the meeting’s already arranged. 20:00 at Whaler’s Arch. Can’t leave them waiting now, can we? After all, the Knight still has a reputation to uphold.”

“Jesus...” The sticks went back into their holsters. “Red, this is a horrible idea, and you know it. You can’t tell me you don’t know how many people have put a prize on the Arkham Knight’s head.”

“I know.” Dick was right. This was just as likely a trap, a set-up for him, as it was his trap for the Swans. Two-Face, Penguin, Harley, Scarecrow... everyone who had been involved in Halloween 2015 wanted him dead. Hell, some of the men from his militia wanted him dead. He was fairly certain Aaron Cash wanted him hanging from the highest tree in Gotham as well. “That’s why I called you.”

Thanks to the cowl, Nightwing’s face looked unchanged, but Jason knew he was raising an eyebrow in surprise. He just knew and he didn’t blame him. “I may be a lone wolf, but I am not stupid. If I go in there all by myself, there are a thousand things that could go wrong. Don’t make me beg, Goldie. I’m going in there one way or another.”

Dick’s gaze went to Blüdhaven’s own clock tower at the same time as Jason’s. They were only two minutes short of a suicide mission now. “Alright...” He tried to sound confident, but Jason could hear the worry underneath the words. It was a shitty move jumping this on him, but even an hour earlier and he could not have guaranteed that he wouldn’t have backed out himself. “Okay, Red. I’ll be right behind you. Just answer me this: why me?”

“Excuse me?” That stumped him. What did he mean ‘why me’?

“Why me? I know Blüd is my turf and the Swans are my case, but didn’t we already notice that I suffer from foot-in-mouth disease whenever it comes to you? I can’t guarantee that I’ll keep my mouth shut throughout this.”

“Good.” The look of surprise on his face was priceless. It was almost a shame to ruin it. “Because tonight, just for this one mission, I want you to keep talking.”

Predictably, that only increased his confusion. “What?” He watched Dick turn on the lenses of his cowl once more, scanning him from toe to crown. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay? Did you hit your head or something?”

“Laugh it up, Goldie.” Only one minute left. He had to end this quickly.

 _Just give him the truth_ , not-Robin argued. _He deserves that much_.

 _Yes. Give him the truth_ , the Arkham Knight agreed. _You should let him know just how fucked up the inside of your head really is..._

“You don’t know what it’s like, Dick...” Perhaps he really should. It was rare enough that not-Robin and the Arkham Knight agreed on something. “Remember how freaked out you just were when you heard the Knight’s voice from me instead of my own? Well, I have that almost daily. That, and Joker, and Bruce constantly reminding me that I was never good enough, and this getup isn’t helping. I could use a distraction, to be honest.”

Dick’s hands reached for his shoulders almost in slow motion. He wanted nothing more than to flinch away, but he knew it would be entirely counter­-productive. He was already giving the Knight a small victory by putting on the suit and the mask again. He wasn’t going to give him another by being a coward. Dick’s touch was soft as a feather.

“Jay... you were more than good enough. You still are. Now let’s get down there and kick some over-sized geese ass.”

***

He hit the roof of the desolate shipyard they called Whaler’s Arch at precisely 20:00. Through his comm line, Dick’s voice came in a steady stream of light-hearted words about the camping trip they had taken little less than a month before Joker and things just generally going to hell. True to form, Dick managed to fill an entire minute just talking in meticulous, picturesque detail about how they had bickered over who would carry the tent and the food. Maybe he was just making half of it up. Maybe they really had behaved as silly as it sounded now. Jason couldn’t recall. The entire trip was one of those hazy things, lost in the murky, muddled mess those fifteen months had reduced his memories to. In the end, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was not alone. Dick was there. Nightwing was there. And as long as he was talking, the Arkham Knight had no choice but to shut the fuck up. Oracle was almost certainly monitoring both their trackers. Everything would be fine.

He dropped in through one of the skylights and landed right in the middle of what looked like a gang war in the making. His quick, cursory search gave him a headcount of twenty-eight, almost twice as many as he had seen from outside. Apparently, someone had borrowed his cowl camouflage armor.

“Quite the party here...” He tried to use the same cocky voice the Knight had used every time he had talked to Batman. It was eerily easy. “I guess you wanted to _double_ the fun by bringing half the gang.” He hoped Nightwing caught the hint.

“Just precautions, Arkham Knight.” Apparently, the clown with the over-sized nose and the bullet-proof vest was his seller for tonight. _Smashing._ His scan of the grates stacked behind the bastard showed nothing. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, brushing over the remote on/off switch for his tactical vision on his left gauntlet in one fluid motion. The thugs around him who had not shown up on scan glowed in bright blue. The crates did not. In his comm, Dick started talking about how they had built snares to catch some dinner for their first night in the wilderness.

_Yep. Definitely a trap._

“How about we skip the pleasantries and get straight to inspecting the merchandise.”

“Oh... the merch is good...” The toothy grin that the thug gave him was missing two and a half teeth. “But feel free to come and take a look for yourself.”

He followed the invitation slowly and stepped up to the crates, past the henchmen. Nightwing’s tracker was only eight meters east of his position. Everything would be fine, even if he could practically feel the trip wires under his fingers.

The bullet-proof leader was first. He kicked him hard enough in the face to break out another two teeth before jumping at the thug next to him. The flash bang went off without a hitch, followed quickly by the buzzing of two electrified escrima sticks to his left. He grabbed the two goons closest to him by their heads and let their skulls meet with a loud crack, then rushed over to the idiot who had finally managed to aim his AK-47 at Nightwing. A loud howl escaped the thug’s throat as his nose met the barrel of his own gun, followed by a knee to the gut. It ended when his face landed in the nearest crate. Another weapon clicking had him whirl around to find Nightwing’s back turned to a loaded shotgun. He drew quickly and planted a bullet in each shoulder of the shooter. He would have preferred the head, but Dick was never going to let him hear the end of it and tonight was not a night he wanted to argue. As if to return the favor, a stick flew right past his head and hit another unfortunate scumbag right between the eyes. He dodged a metal bat swing to his head and planted his feet in the two approaching mooks instead, before using his attacker’s left-over momentum to bring him down and break both his arms.

He switched back to normal vision as soon as the smoke from the grenade had gone. Dick had just finished somersaulting over some screaming bastard who ended up with his head knocked into the dirty ground. All around them, groaning opponents were most likely counting their remaining ribs. All in all, there were only six left. Plus the bastard running for the exit. “Straggler. I’ll get him.”

He vaulted over the crates and rolled quickly to break his fall. One well-aimed zip kick later, the dirty coward was face-down on the broken floor. He moved in for the proverbial kill and turned him over to break his face. To his surprise, the bastard actually smiled at him. The grin instantly set off every single alarm bell in his head.

“Something funny, scumbag?”

“Yeah...” The grin widened to almost grotesque length. “Always look up.”

He dodged even before looking, knowing that any second wasted was a second closer to death, but it was already too late. The net was spiked throughout and weighted around the rim, dragging him down despite his momentum. He tried to brace his fall, only to twist his right ankle instead. The bone was on fire almost instantly. From down by the water, Nightwing was approaching him in quick steps and jumps. _Fuck, fuck, FUCK!_   He ditched the knife he had been reaching for in favor of one of his guns and fired a bullet into the ground right in front of Dick. “UP!”

Dick reacted instantly, leaping up and shooting his grapple up into the rafters. Jason hoped the idiot had remembered to turn off the cowl or he’d be running right into a trap. Something sudden and sharp stung in his left thigh, but he chose to ignore it. First, he needed to get out of this net. Thankfully, very few fibers were strong enough for a Wayne-branded blade. He removed the combat knife from his belt and made short work of the net. A few seconds later, Nightwing landed next to him, graceful as ever, with half a smile on his face.

“I think that was the last of them. You okay, Red?”

“Think so.” He wasn’t. His ankle was burning up the moment he tried to put any weight on it, but he’d be damned if he was going to let Nightwing know about it. More likely than not it was entirely psychosomatic. A quick glance around the shipyard confirmed his assessment. All hostiles were down. “Let’s grab the phone of head-honcho-stupid over there so we can hack their comms and get out of here.”

“Agreed.”

Nightwing was halfway down the stairs again when Jason finally remembered the sting in his thigh. Against the dark grey of his camouflage suit the yellow-feathered dart looked downright ridiculous. He pulled it out quickly and grimaced at the blood sticking to the tip. “Oh fu—“

***

It was warm. Wherever he was, it was warm and soft. His pulse thundered in his throat and his head hurt like he’d been hit by an eighteen-wheeler, but other than that, he felt strangely okay, if slightly fuzzy. He tried to recall the events that had led him to being here while his eyelids fought against whatever was trying to pull him back under.

He had been at Whaler’s Arch with Nightwing. It had been a trap. They had kicked the crap out of twenty-eight armed guys. Twenty-nine if you counted the sneaky bitch in the rafters. The sneaky, camouflaged bitch that had trapped him with a net, then tranqued him. Well, that explained the fuzzy feeling at least.

_Oh shit._

His pulse spiked immediately. If he had been tranquilized, then there was a good chance he was not anywhere safe, no matter how warm and comfortable. He had to get up and he had to do it now. Unfortunately, his body seemed to disagree. His eyelids, his fists... everything moved at the pace of a slug on crutches. To make it worse, focusing on his eyelids made him realize that he could feel the brush of warm air against his skin. _Both helmets off. Fuck!_

It was the feeling of a hand sliding over his shoulder almost tenderly that eventually pulled him out of the grey haze he was in. It made his stomach twist and turn. _Not safe. Someone’s close enough to touch you. Definitely not fucking safe._ The first thing that came into his line of sight was the edge of the bed he was in – black and blue sheets, probably at least queen-sized judging from the fact that his feet did not touch the end of the mattress – and he used whatever momentum his sudden spike of panic had given him, to turn and half-vault, half-roll off the side and onto what felt like really fluffy carpet. His legs gave out immediately and his ankle seared in fresh pain. His hands instantly grabbed the knife hidden in his boots. He was not going down without a fight.

“Woah, easy, Jaybird! Easy!” On the other side of the bed, Dick crouched, still in his Nightwing suit but minus the boots and the cowl, ready to pounce. It would have looked ridiculous if Jason hadn’t known just how fast he would be able to do insane damage perched like that. “It’s okay, Jaybird. We’re at my place. Just you and me. Everything’s okay.”

He was far from okay and so was Dick. Jason could tell. He blinked as he surveyed the spacious bedroom in front of him. His helmets were lying on the bedside table near Dick. The lights seemed glaringly bright, but he could tell from the dial on the wall that they were actually half-dimmed. Slowly, his hand pushed the knife onto the bedside drawer. On the way there, his eyes caught sight of the duvet he had ripped open when vaulting off the bed. “I ruined your sheets.”

Dick laughed at that. His usual, happy-go-lucky, not-a-care-in-the-world-laugh. As far as Jason was concerned, it was the sweetest sound in the world at that moment. “Jesus, Jason! First you scare the crap out of me and then you follow it up with apologizing over a piece of torn cotton? You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“Shouldn’t have snuck up on me then.” He looked back to the knife on the drawer, only to freeze at the sight of the picture next to it. He reached for it slowly, half-expecting it to vanish into thin air the moment he touched it.

It didn’t.

“Is this—“

“Yeah, it is.” The smile was gone from Dick’s voice and face, but in the picture it was bright as ever. Next to him, the other young boy in the photo looked downright grim, even if there was half a smile on his face. The other half was the typical look of annoyance Jason had for anyone who gave him random hugs. “Alfred took that the day we came back from that camping trip, remember?”

He sort of, kind of hadn’t, but since there was photographic evidence of it, it was apparently not just one of the many figments of his imagination. “We both look like the world’s two dumbest contestants of _I’m A Celebrity... Get Me Out Of Here_.”

“I know.” This time, there was a considerable amount of sadness in Dick’s smile. “But it’s the only picture I have with you and me in a shot together. I just couldn’t get rid of it.”

“Well, you always were a sentimental carnie.”

It came out a lot harsher than he had meant. He put the picture back quickly, as if he had just scorched his hands on it. Thankfully, Dick simply shook his head at the jab. “And you always did make some weird-ass backhanded compliments...” At last, Nightwing slipped out of his pouncing pose. He stretched quickly, barely reaching the ceiling with his finger tips before rolling his shoulders. “I grabbed the phone, like you said. Guy had no sense of password security whatsoever. Barb cracked it within ten seconds. She put all the data on the server.”

“Anything useful yet?”

“Sadly, not.” Dick was pacing again. He always paced when he was brooding over a case. Upside down and on his hands if it was a bad one. “I didn’t expect him to have any valuable intel on there, but even his call logs are useless. Almost all of them circle back around to other middle-rank thugs, most of which I knew about already.”

“Almost?” He slipped the knife back into its sheath and did a quick check for the rest of his assorted blades and lock picks. He was missing one, but that could have gotten lost in the scuffle at Whaler’s Arch. “How many out of the ordinary?”

“Three.” It wasn’t until Dick handed him an unopened bottle of water that Jason realized how thirsty he was. _Probably a side-effect of the sedative_. “Two were to his wife. The third to the mayor’s office.”

“The mayor’s office?” He raised an eyebrow, both at that info and at the bottle in his hand. Tampering with unopened bottles wasn’t impossible, but who was he kidding. This was Dick. He was smart enough to have learned his lesson three months ago. Right? “Why the fuck would some low-life thug call the mayor’s office?”

“Mayor Anderson isn’t exactly a popular guy,” Dick explained in a tone that made it clear they would be here for a while if he wanted to elaborate on that. “He get’s death threats on a daily basis. Besides, one thing all thugs I’ve interrogated agreed on is that both Black Swan and White Swan are women.”

“I don’t buy it.” At last, his thirst won out over his paranoia and he took a careful sip. As far as he could tell, it really was just water. “You have to be a special kind of moron to make that kind of phone call from the same phone you use for your daily weapon smuggling deals.” He tried to picture the mayor having a casual chat with a weapons dealer over lunch. He wouldn’t put it past someone with that much money and power. People like that tended to be blind to common sense and caution, unless they happened to dress up as a bat and beat the crap out of criminals at night. And even then they wouldn’t be bothered to take a call like that directly through a landline. The thought hit him like a ton of bricks. They wouldn’t even take the call themselves. “Does the mayor have a secretary who happens to be a girl?”

“Already checked. Name and prints both came back clear.”

“Names and prints are easy to fake if you have access to a shitload of money and the signature of someone like the mayor. Check her DOB against known Penguin associates.”

“Her DOB?”

“D-O-B. Date of birth. Most people forget to change that when they make a new identity for themselves.” It was an easy mistake to make. It was a date that was so integral to a person’s identity that most people never even thought of it. _And let’s be honest, if you look enough to drink, how often will anyone actually care about how fucking old you are?_

“Alright,” Dick grabbed the empty bottle from him – when the fuck had he emptied the damn thing? – and chucked it into the trash bin by the door without even looking at it. “I’ll get Oracle on it. She can work on it while I try to get some color back onto your face.”

And there was his cue to retrieve his gear and get the fuck out of here. There was enemy territory, home territory and friendly territory. And then there was over-friendly territory. Every second he spent here would only increase his risk of getting roped into some teary-eyed family intervention. He had had enough sappy for one evening, thank you very much.

“I’ll go make some tea. Do you want any ice for your ankle?”

“What?” He had been just about ready to pluck himself off the floor, but the question stopped him flat. Sure, his ankle was still on fire, but how did Dick—

_Oh god..._

Had he checked Jason for injuries once he had taken him here? He probably had. It was the next logical step in an extraction procedure. The ankle would be hard to miss with the cowl. Those bones had been broken and mended nine times after all and that left a certain amount of visible trauma. He thought of the scars left by the drill as Joker had interrogated him, about the questions he had asked about Nightwing, about the pain that had spread through every inch beneath his knee as the skin and muscle had come apart, about—

“I didn’t remove your boots, or anything like that,” Nightwing quickly interjected. His face had gone from perfectly relaxed to fully alert. Probably because Jason could imagine he must have looked like a deer in the headlights at that question. “I just did a quick check with the cowl and—“

“It’s fine.” He didn’t even want to know where this conversation was going. “It’s old damage. Nothing you can do about it. Well... except maybe give me a lift back to Gotham on that bike of yours.” Part of him shuddered at the thought. Dick drove worse than Bruce, but then again, nobody drove worse than Santa Priscan mercs. Thirty minutes on a bike with a careless driver beat god-knew-how-many-minutes travelling with a twisted, already traumatized ankle any day.

Dick’s reply was a masterful pout. “What?! You’re not even gonna stay for dinner?”

“Dinner?” Jason snorted at that. “Dickie, your idea of grocery shopping is to hop down to that Walmart on Ninth Street once every two weeks, stack up on milk, cocoa puffs, snacks and the pre-processed, microwavable crap that only holds together because it contains the same stuff they use for wallpaper glue. Do you honestly expect me to eat anything that comes out of your kitchen?”

“I still cook better than Bruce.”

“Anyone cooks better than Bruce,” Jason objected. “He nearly burned down the manor while trying to make _pasta_ , for fuck’s sake.” Despite his best efforts, the memory brought a smile to Jason’s face. Dick grinned at him from the other side of the bed.

“And you know where I go to shop, because...?”

“Basic recon.” He finally found the energy to drag himself off the floor and grab his gear. His ankle still hurt like hell, but he gritted his teeth through the pain. _Suck it up, Jason. The night is not over yet and the worst is still to come._ “You go there because it’s right on the way between the precinct and your apartment, same as your local bank branch. You leave your shopping list in the cart, too. You’re a stalker’s wet dream, really.”

And, oh, he had just said that... Dick grinned at him instantly, batting his eyelashes, one hand on his hip, the other running through his tousled hair as if he were posing for an article in _Playgirl._ “Are you stalking me, Jason?”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead. Are you going to give me a lift now or not?”

***

True to his nature, Dick kept on talking throughout the entire ride back to Gotham. What started out as more teasing about his horrible choice of words earlier and more sappy recollections of their only proper weekend vacation together quickly turned into carefully veiled, mildly concerned questions as they approached the address Jason had given him.

_Yes, it’s on the mainland._

_Yes, it’s an early Thanksgiving gift for you and Robin._

_No, it’s not the Hatter._

It was going to be much, much better than Tetch could ever be. At least for three of the four of them.  Four of five if he were counting _him_ as well... Jason himself felt his stomach curl into a ball of ice as they approached the desolate ruin of a subway station that was Bracken just by the edge of Gotham.

He grappled out the seat two blocks early and used his momentum to hook his grapple around a nearby street light and swing underneath the highway overpass, cursing as his ankle protested at the strain he put on his foot. _Just a few more minutes_. It was all he would need. Surely Dick had already ground to a halt and jumped off his bike to come looking for him. Robin had not been too far behind. He had to be done by then.

The entrance panel was cleverly hidden, almost melting into the surrounding architecture. He had to give credit where credit was due. Sadly, it was not going to do _him_ much good. He ripped off the blue mask at last and hooked it straight into the connectors that linked the panel to the security systems. Within seconds every single virus he had ever encountered battered the network. As he disconnected the visor’s remote link to the gauntlets, the timer on his Red Hood helmet started. He looked back at the motion sensors that had been cleverly hidden on the underside of the highway bridge. _Your move, Ghost..._

The blade embedded itself in the blue mask just shy of thirty-eight seconds and Jason reacted automatically, dodging the glide kick that had been aimed at his head with a quick roll, followed by a zip-kick to the chest. Kevlar-gloved hands grabbed holds of his right ankle quickly and he bit down hard on his lips against the pain, even as he was thrown against the nearest wall.

 _Banking on the old trauma... nice..._ The Knight’s chuckle was a hail of dark ice in his skull. _Do you still believe he didn’t know where Joker kept you? The_ things _he did to you..._

“Fuck you!” He wasn’t sure which Knight it was that his rage was aimed at, but it didn’t matter. His fists kept flying, in between quick dodges. He didn’t hold back. He didn’t regret. Neither of them deserved any better. Not after everything they had done. To Gotham. To him. To _them_.

He caught the blood-red flash of Robin’s vest out of the corner of his eye and immediately used the ghost’s fist that aimed for his hood as leverage to swing up and counter Nightwing’s incoming kick from the other side. The black clad arm he was holding onto cracked painfully and suddenly they were on the ground, rolling over broken streets covered in wet stones and dead earth. And yet, the weeds were still springing from the ground, fresh as ever. Because some things, some people, just refused to die. They might disappear for a while. They might look dead. But they would always spring back up again. Always. Ill weeds grow apace.

“You! Fucking! Bastard!” He accentuated each word with a punch to the cowl beneath him. Part of him felt ecstatic at the sight of blood bursting from the split lip, the slight tears in the fabric by the temples and the minute wincing of muscles as his gloves connected with bare flesh. Part of him wanted to just keep on smashing and smashing and smashing, turning that chiseled face into a bloody pulp.

“Red, stop it, please! Jaybird, please!”

“Field names, Nightbrat!” He had been expecting to shout at a Nightwing in perfect battle stance, balanced perfectly, every fiber of muscle tensed to the max, two glowing escrima sticks in hand. Instead, Dick looked infinitely small in his black and blue suit as he struggled against the hold Robin had on him. Robin, who didn’t move an inch. Robin, who looked at him like he was approving and disapproving at the same time. Robin, who held on to his older brother like both their lives depended on it. It was only then that he noticed the two gloved hands that had moved to the release mechanism of his hood. The cold night air stung sharp against the J on his cheek as the helmet flipped open. Beneath him, whatever hostility had been left in the masked face dissipated.

“Jason...”

“You fucking bastard...”

He returned the favor by pushing the cowl back and off the pale face. His eyes were still the same bright blue, his hair the same raven black. It was as if nothing had happened. Nothing at all. But it had. So many things had happened... He got up slowly, backing off inch by inch. In the darker corners of his mind, the Knight growled in frustration. _Just shoot him already, you coward..._

“Bruce?” The shock was clear in Nightwing’s face and even clearer in his voice. The last time Jason had heard him sound like that had been ten months ago, when he had found out Jason was still alive. “Is that really you?”

“Told you so, didn’t I.” The gun was out of its holster and ready to shoot before anyone had time to react to that. He watched Ghost’s... Batman’s... Bruce’s face harden once more. “Oh, don’t worry, I don’t want to kill you anymore. If I did you’d be dead already. I rigged all of my masks to explode on command.” That much was true. If he had wanted it so, all it would have taken was one very specific sentence to blow everything within a two-feet radius into tiny bits and pieces. “I just want answers and I’m sure so do they.” He nodded into the direction of his brothers, by law if not by blood. Tim, who was still trying to hold on to that mitigating role he had maneuvered himself into. Dick, who was so clearly desperate to do something, anything, but equally unsure of what exactly that something should be. And then there was Bruce. Bruce, being his usual, stone-faced, mute image of indifference. He wished he could just put a bullet through his face. He wished, but dead men didn’t tell tales and they certainly didn’t give answers. Not the kind he needed.

“Where the hell were you?” It was as good a question to start with as any, but he didn’t find the energy to hang onto it, let alone the patience to stick with it long enough to wait out the answers. The cold rage inside him had become a snowball down a slope and it was growing fast. “Where the hell were you and what the fuck were you thinking?! We had a funeral for you, d’you know that? For you and Alfred, too!” To his left, Dick and Tim looked at him in fresh confusion. Of course they didn’t know that he had been there. He had become an expert at being a ghost and he had made good use of that skill back then. “A fucking funeral. Where were you when Dick cried his eyes out over your coffin after everyone left? Where were you when Tim and Barb tried to tell each other that they were gonna catch the son of the bitch who’d done it?”

“Jason—“

“Shut up, Barb, I’m not done.” He had been wondering how long it would take for her to drop in. He wondered if the fact that he was glad she was stuck in the Clock Tower thanks to that wheel chair right now made him a horrible person or not. Then again, he was already, very definitely headed for hell, so fuck it. “Where were you when Robin recovered in hospital from a bullet he took for you? Where were you when Dick had to deal with getting harassed and suspended at work because he was actually trying to do what you taught him to do? Where were you when Gotham went to hell last Christmas and the only person left to clean up the mess was me? Where were you?”

“Jason, please—“

“Where were you when Two Face nearly shot Tim? Where were you all those times we ended up nearly dead in some deathtrap or another over the last year? Where were you when Tetch hypnotized Tim and nearly had him drown himself, when Dick was nearly poisoned, when he was fired? Where were you when Tim and I nearly got blown up by the Swans? Where the fuck were you and what the fuck were you thinking?!”

On the other end of the barrel, the face of the man he had once dared to think of as a father warped into that familiar expression of displeasure, of disappointment, that he had seen far too often.

 _Well, at least he consistently thinks of you as a loser_ , the Knight laughed. _You have to give him that._

 “I was trying to protect you.” If anything at all, Bruce sounded tired, but Jason wasn’t fooled by that. Bruce was not facing him directly and he wouldn’t be surprised if the hand that wasn’t facing him was curled around a Batarang right now. Or the remote control for the Batmobile. Or prepping one of those fear-gas wrist darts he was apparently so fond of using now. “It was better... safer, for everyone to think that Bruce Wayne was dead.”

“Safer?” The laugh that escaped his throat at the word was almost hysterical and it set off a fire in his lungs. “Just how much safer do you think we were, old man? Huh? How much?”

“Jason, that’s enough.” At last, Tim seemed to have gotten fed up with being the quiet observer. Almost everyone had their breaking point. They were lucky. Those that didn’t have one... they couldn’t break. They could only be ground down, eroded, grain by grain until there was nothing left but ashes. Jason could count the people he would ever have wished that feeling on with one hand. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, Red,” Tim tried once more. “But please, put down the gun.”

“Jay, please...” Dick, who had somehow managed to entangle himself from Tim’s expertly applied hold, edged forward slowly. “We can talk about this. There’s no need to shoot anybody. I mean, it’s not like we had the mob waiting in front of our door each day since Bruce... since he left.”

“Really?” Despite the lack of his voice modulator the sound was darker than anything he had ever heard from his own mouth and it sent a chill down his spine. It also made Dick stop dead in his tracks. The gun remained pointed where it was, but his gaze moved on to Nightwing.

“Say, Dick, you remember Tony Zucco, don’t you?” He watched Dick freeze on the spot. “Of course you do. Kind of hard to forget. The Maroni’s busted him out, you know? They had it all figured out. Bruce Wayne’s first son – handsome, cocky son of a bitch with black hair and blue eyes, who just so happens to be taken in by Wayne a few months before Robin appears and then moves to Blüdhaven just as Robin vanishes and Nightwing shows up. Sorry to disappoint Replacement over there, but once you know Batman’s true identity, it don’t take a genius to figure that one out. They busted him out of jail and hired him to take out the bits of Grayson trash he missed. They hired Killer Moth as a backup, too. You know, just in case Tony would fail. They had it all planned out. You want to know why I know where you shop? I wasn’t stalking you. I was stalking them stalking you. They had picked the perfect time, too. Just after an early morning double shift. Eight hours in the suit, sixteen hours in the uniform... you were sooooo out of it that day you wouldn’t even have noticed me picking your pocket if your life had depended on it. So, no, you didn’t have the mob waiting in front of your door, because the mob never made it to your door. The Maroni’s didn’t. Neither did Tony. Nor Killer Moth. You’re welcome.”

He had expected protests at his methods or at least a shocked outcry, but instead, all he got was silence. Dick looked stuck somewhere between nausea and horror.

“And you, Tim...” He watched Robin startle at that. Understandable. He was pretty sure he had never called him by his name before. “You and Barb... you would never even have made it to the airport for your honeymoon. Although in your case it wasn’t the Maronis. It was the Russians. They also brought in some help: the Abramovici twins... Oh, and there was the Black Glove... Oh, the Black Glove... they had big plans for you. They wanted you to be the Black Knight and Barb to be the White Queen. Lovely little chess board of death they had drawn up for the two you. Nearly lost a leg disarming it, but don’t worry. They’ll never have the chance to rebuild it. Oh, and the Clock King tried to redecorate the Clock Tower while the two of you were having a lovely time in... Kiribati, was it? Sorry Harv cut it short. Would have taken care of it myself, but I was a little busy with Black Mask at the time. He was still kind of sore about that ass-kicking he got from Dick a year ago. You’re both welcome for that, too.”

Whatever grip Tim had had on his emotions, it was crumbling fast. There was no fast, diplomatic answer. No wise-crack. No balanced approach. Instead, it was Barb who spoke up first. “Jason... I know you think you had to do what you did—“

“I KNOW I had to do what I did!!” He fired a quick round into a derelict storefront to his right, before bringing the gun back up to face the ghost of fucking trauma past. “So tell me, Bruce, how safe exactly do you think any of us were? You know, I used to think that it’s just me you didn’t care about. Fuck, the way you were raving on about Dick I can see where some of the rumors in the tabloids came from, but if you really, REALLY mean it... if you really wanted to keep him and the replacement safe, then WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU?! There’ve been sightings of _Ghost e_ ver since February. Did it ever occur to you, at any point in the last nine months, that maybe you should at least let them know you’re not dead? Did you even CARE?”

“I always did.” Of course, Bruce was not intimidated by having a fully loaded gun pointed at him. _Almost fully loaded_ , not-Robin corrected. _Minus one bullet_. Of course he didn’t react to any of it in the slightest. Because Bruce. Jason doubted he had ever learned to channel any emotion other than anger into actual words. “I still do. I care about all of you.”

“Don’t you dare lie to me!” And here they were again. Out in the open this time. In the ghost town part of the wasteland that was Bracken Station and its surrounding area. Not in an underground mall. He wasn’t fooled. “I am tired, Bruce.” He really was and not just because he hadn’t slept in almost fifty hours, not counting his little sedative-induced snooze. “I am tired of you fucking lying to me, to all of us. I don’t care whether you hang up the cowl and retire or whether you keep on kicking ass until you go down in a hail of bullets one day, but don’t you DARE to lie to me! Don’t you DARE lie to THEM ever again, you hear me?! I am sick and tired of having to clean up after you when I have enough crap to deal with in my own head already.”

At last, the rage that had been building up inside him slowly died. He felt deflated, like a balloon that had drifted higher and higher until it hit an electrical line and burned up. He would be crashing soon. He could feel it in his bones. The clock built into his visor read 00:52 hours. Just past midnight. November 24th. Thanksgiving. It felt like a sick joke. He gave one last look at the black-clad picture of stoicism in front of him. If you gave someone something they wanted as free favor to someone else entirely, should they still be grateful for it?

“You don’t have any idea what a lucky son of a bitch you are, do you?”

With one last glance at the dysfunctional illusion of a family in front of him, Jason flipped down his helmet and grappled off into the night.


	7. Black Sheep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some lessons you only learn the hard way. Some lessons stick with you for life. For Jason, one of them has always stood out like a sore thumb: the only thing more painful than not having something, is having it only to lose it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear there will be a happy-ish ending. Sometime... Somehow...
> 
> Poor batkids :(

The coffin was deep, rich, polished mahogany. The linings were Egyptian cotton, white as the snows atop the highest mountains. The Wayne crest shone proudly from every surface, as if dying rich was some commendable achievement that deserved celebration. He watched through the scope of his sniper rifle, perched atop the nearest building, carefully hidden from the grieving attendants as the overprized, empty box was lowered into the ground. The first few shovels full of dirt pearled off the smooth cover and slid off to the side, but soon the entire hole had been filled up. Words were said, hands were shaken, shoulders were patted and soon it was just Dick Grayson in front of a pretty little, picture-perfect grave.

Jason would never understand why people insisted on these rituals. Dead was dead. Down in the earth, down in the sea, scattered in the wind... it made no difference. This entire affair was nothing but an enormous waste of money. Even worse, there wasn’t even a body in there, not that anyone would have been able to tell. The wake had been a closed-casket affair.

In front of the site, Dick sank to his knees slowly and buried his face in his hands. Through the long-range audio receivers, the sound of his sobs was little more than a whisper, yet it drew Jason like a moth to a flame. He checked and double-checked his surroundings, before disassembling his rifle into its individual gun halves and grappling into the graveyard. The closer he got, the more obvious the signs of distress became. The shaking of his shoulders. The way his body curved over, an instinctive attempt to make himself as small as possible and assume the closest thing to a fetal position that one could assume while on their knees. The short hitched breaths.

“He’s not dead, Dick.” For once, there was no bite in his voice. No scorn. No snark. Not even a hint of annoyance. He removed his helmet, tucked it under his left arm and reached out his right hand slowly. “Bruce is not dead. He’s just faking it. He’ll be back.” At last, his gloved fingers came down on the shoulder in the fine, black suit.

He might as well have touched a live wire.

The pain was sharp and instantaneous, arching through his hand and up his arm all the way to his shoulder and into his back. He cursed sharply as he pulled back and felt anger turn into mild panic as the pain was replaced by a heavy numbness. He could no longer feel. It started in his fingertips, but soon everything below his right shoulder socket was dead and limp. On the suit, his handprint stood out in thick, vivid crimson. When he glanced down, his hand was drenched in blood.

“You...” The sobbing had stopped, but tremors were still shaking Dick’s body. Jason watched him get up and turn slowly. He had never seen Nightwing look that pissed off with anyone. “You dare come here and trample all over his memory, his legacy, with all that blood on your hands?!”

“I saved your life, asshole!” Whatever shock he might have felt at the sudden change of mood was gone in an instant. “I saved your fucking life!”

“By mindlessly killing everyone that got in your way,” Dick retorted, before giving him a shove hard enough to send him tumbling backwards. He followed it up by looking at his hands as if he had just plunged them into raw sewage. “You are a disgrace to this family. Why didn’t you just stay dead?! We were better off without your whiny ass!”

“Go easy on him, Dick.” Was that Tim? He whirled around to find himself in front of Robin, now fully suited up in red Kevlar instead of black silk, his bo staff resting on his left shoulder. The lenses of his cowl made his eyes unreadable, but his smirk more than made up for it. “He’s not the first loser in history who compensated for lack of skill with sheer brutality.”

“No, he’s just the first loser who also happens to be part of this family,” Batgirl added. She was approaching him with quick, firm steps, head lowered and hands balled into fists. His brain screamed for retreat, but his muscles refused to obey. “And we don’t need a loose cannon to drag our name into the mud.”

Her grip was iron, cold and relentless. Someone, maybe Nightwing, now also in full gear, maybe Robin, took his helmet, guns and flash bangs from him, while she dragged him back to the road. The Batmobile was waiting, engines humming quietly. Batman didn’t even spare him the courtesy of a glance as Batgirl tucked him into the backseat. Within a few seconds he was swallowed by darkness. Every breath he took made the little box he had been contained in feel smaller, denser, hotter and staler. The metal hull seemed to melt around him and close in, and soon he could almost taste the horrible, familiar tang of cheap plastic against his lips and on his tongue.

Batman was still driving like a madman, sending all of Jason’s old bruises and scars ringing as he was flung about in the restraints of his seat, and probably giving him a few new ones to boot. He had been just about done musing what would break first – his skull or his ribs – when the car suddenly stopped. The trunk lifted, letting in blinding light and a rush of air so cold his entire body cramped up in sheer shock. Before him, Batman towered all cowl and scowl, the look of disgust and disappointment evident even despite all the black. Large hands gripped his arm and ripped him forward. He wanted to fight back, but neither his brain nor his body obeyed as he stumbled along blindly. Only once they reached the steps did they finally remember.

He would never forget the feeling of broken tiles under his feet.

At last, his body did something. He fought back with every ounce of strength he had, but soon enough they were all there. Batman. Robin. Nightwing. Batgirl. He winced as they stripped him off the rest of his gear and thrashed wildly as they stripped him of his clothes until the only thing covering him were the myriad of scars all over his body. Each of them was fresh and new and he felt his stomach turn at the sight of the bloody holes in his feet, the feeling of exposed nail beds at the edge of his finger tips and the horrid smell of burnt flesh on his cheek. Within a few moments, they were at the trap door.

“Bruce, please don’t!” Anything but this. He couldn’t go back there. He just couldn’t. “Dickie, please! Barb! Tim! Don’t do this to me!” The door lifted with the same loud creaking sound that had buried deep into his head all those years ago. Darkness, cold and laughter were reaching at him from the bloodied stairs. “Please, not again!”

“You are a cold-blooded psychopath, Jason.” It was as if Batman was reading from a manual. There was not a hint of emotion in his voice, not a single spark of empathy, remorse or pity. At most, he sounded _bored_ , as if this entire affair was nothing but a colossal waste of his time. “I was a fool to take you in.”

“And we were fools to put up with you for the last year,” Dick agreed with a short nod.

“This is where you have always belonged,” Barbara added.

“Where you always _will_ belong,” Tim corrected.

And then, he was falling.

He wasn’t sure who had given him the final push. Maybe Bruce. Maybe all of them. He didn’t know. All he knew was that he was falling, tumbling down sixty-five steps. His body remembered and relived each of them as he rolled over harsh stone and broken tiles. By the time he crashed against the floor at the bottom, two of his teeth were swimming in his blood-filled mouth. He caught one last glance of Batman’s disappointed stare before the trap door closed with a heavy thud. From the other end of his tiny cell, bleached white skin grinned back at him.

“Welcome home, Jason...”

***

His vocal chords felt as torn as his bed sheets by the time he was lucid enough to realize that it had only been a nightmare. Just a nightmare. _A goddamn, fucking nightmare from hell..._ He started with his finger nails, counting each of them as he checked his fingers over and over. _All there, all good_. His feet were next. He worked his way upwards methodically, muttering along to keep out the laughter that was trying to drag him back under. The scars were there. But that was all they were. Scars. Just scars.

“Fucking hell...”

He felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he reached for the cigarettes and lighter on his bedside table. It took him six tries to get the flame steady enough to light the damn thing, but at last the familiar taste of tobacco filled his mouth and lungs. It hurt, but it also felt good. Familiar. Comforting. He was halfway through the cig when he finally felt steady enough to climb out of the ruined bed and push back the curtains. The sight that greeted him made his eyebrows arch.

_Snow. Winter has fucking come._

He should have been expecting it, really, it was late November in Jersey after all, but the sight still surprised him. On the other hand, at least it explained why his ankle, shoulders and back had been acting up more than usual for the last week. “Fucking weather changes.” He stubbed the cig out in the ash tray on the window sill, slipped into the next-best set of pants within reach and started his usual morning check. At least, whatever counted as morning. He had trashed his clock in his sleep, but a quick glance outside the window told him that it was getting dark again already. No wonder. He had just come out of fifty hours of tiresome work and a reunion from hell.

Both the cam footage and the alarms came up green. The heating in this safehouse in the north of Bleake was still broken, but at the very least the electric heater he had bought was doing its job. He dialed it up to double output and did a quick sweep of the over-sized shoe box that was his apartment that came up clean. No picked locks. No broken windows or doors. No signs of foul play. At the very least, his bed sheets had been the only thing he had torn up. Hooray for silver lining.

It wasn’t until halfway through his daily exercises and past his third cup of pitch-black coffee that he finally stopped ignoring his phone lighting up every two minutes. If the robots really were to take over one day, he was sure the first thing trying to murder him would be his voicemail. He lit another cig and opened the remote link to the Batcomputer while the recordings started rolling. Predictably enough, the first four had been quick messages from Dick, asking whether he was alright and telling him get in touch ASAP. Not for the first time Jason wondered how someone as supposedly perfect as Dick Grayson could need five attempts to get the hint.

“Alright, Jay, I hoped I wouldn’t have to resort to this, but since you’re clearly not in the mood to talk—“

“Understatement of the century,” Jason muttered under his breath as he went through the White Swan / Black Swan data on the Clock Tower servers. Sharing any and all information gathered on high profile cases was one of the first things they had all agreed on, mostly because Bruce’s need-to-know information management policies had usually come back to bite people in the ass. So far, everyone seemed to have stuck to their guns. Mostly. He had never shared his suspicions about Ghost with anyone else and he was pretty sure Robin and Nightwing had their own little skeletons in the virtual closet. Not to mention Oracle and her Birds of Prey...

“—I asked Barbara to booby-trap the data we gathered last night.”

Jason’s fingers froze above the keyboard, as if the keys had suddenly turned into hot coals. He was just about ready to sever the connection and run a full check on all systems when Dick’s message continued.

“And when I say booby-trap, I mean I had her set it to ping me when you opened the folder. Nothing more. Just a ping, a quick notification. I just...” Suddenly, Dick sounded infinitely small. The pause... the falling tone... it was almost as if he was searching for words, but that seemed ridiculous. Dick Grayson always knew just what to say and how to act. He was just perfect like that. “Jay, I’m not sure you fully understand just how scary it was to have you disappear into thin air every time you ran from the manor, even if only for a few days, or how much it hurt to know you were out there somewhere and we just didn’t know where for the love of god... And after all that has happened... after Joker... after last Halloween... I lost my little brother once, Jason. Please don’t ask me to put myself through that horror ever again.”

On his laptop, the files had finally finished loading. Apparently, someone had swiped the phones of all the other unconscious goons as well as the laptop they would have used for the transaction from BPD’s evidence lockers before anyone had even been able to log everything. Apparently, Nightwing had finally learned to fight fire with fire. The laptop proved to be a gold mine of information, providing them with records of all transactions of the last two weeks. No names of course, but addresses and serial numbers, shell companies and the names of about two dozen couriers. His fingers entered the numbers he had taken off the piece of metal from Saint Miriam’s in a trance.

“So please don’t be mad. I don’t want to invade your privacy or make you feel unsafe. I just want to know that my little brother is still alive and kicking. And you know me, I’ve never trusted those stupid trackers. Technology ha—”

That brought the hint of a smile to Jason’s lips. Leave it to Dick to keep on rambling long enough to forget that there was a one-minute-limit on most voice mails.

“Technology hates me.” Dick’s voice cut sharp into the beginning of the sixth message. “Case in point right here. Anyway, I’ll be waiting for that ping. Until then, happy Thanksgiving, Jaybird. Can’t say that was the most pleasant Thanksgiving family reunion I’ve ever had and it did go south pretty fast, but it was a reunion I thought I’d never have. Thank you, Jason. I owe you.”

“You have no idea...” His query came back positive almost instantly. He uploaded the delivery address directly to his helmet and updated the case notes of both the server and his own system with the relevant data, before returning the laptop to its hiding place. Kingston was not too far from his safehouse. If he hurried, nobody had to die this Thanksgiving. At least not by the hands of Julian Day.

He was fully dressed, geared up and ready to go in less than two minutes. His helmet still smelled faintly of gasoline, a leftover from the bonfire he had had with his Arkham Knight gear on his way back from Bracken Station. He could only hope the scent would fade in time. Outside of his apartment, Gotham was slowly falling into darkness. Even the precious white flakes descending from the heavens quickly turned into unattractive, grey mush as they hit Gotham’s street. The bright red glow of Gotham’s public broadcasting screens stood out like sore thumbs.

Bright red and dirty grey. Red Hood’s colors. Red Hood’s city.

***

The apartment was abandoned, of course, although someone had clearly been living there not too long ago. There was nowhere near enough dust and dirt to signal true abandonment. The furniture, though chipped and mottled was exactly where one would expect it to be. Above the dining room table, an over-sized calendar showed the month November, with several dates circled and adorned with little icons. A cross, a book, a capital W... He didn’t even need to compare them against the case file to know that the dates matched and the symbols represented their respective celebrations. Next to the 24th, a shiny green dollar bill stared him in the face, mocking him to solve the code.

He was already combing the room for additional evidence when the call came in through a private, encrypted comm. line. That alone set off all the alarm bells in his head. Oracle did not usually keep secrets from the other two. Something was off.

“Good morning, Oracle. Why the secrecy?”

“Because I finally figured out who had been trying to access the servers without authorization for the last month.”

 _Unauthorized access to the servers?_ It was the first he heard of it, but it didn’t surprise him in the least. _Bad information management policies. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present exhibit one._ “Is that why the happy Thanksgiving reunion went south, yesterday?”

“It was a contributing factor. You know... in addition to your fists, your guns, your I-did-not-clock-how-many-minutes of venting time--”

“Venting time?” That was one way to put it. If he remembered correctly, Alfred had come up with that during Jason’s first month into the manor. He wondered if Alfred would still have called it the same had Jason been hitting Bruce instead of bags filled with sand or holographic enemies back then.

“Why else do you think Robin was holding back Nightwing? Do you feel better now?”

That question stumped him. “Does it matter?” He couldn’t see how it might. He had done what he had come to do, said what he had come to say. The chances of Bruce taking any of it to heart were smaller than Jason’s chances to turn back time.

“It matters to us. To Robin. To Nightwing. To me.” There was only a slight hint of exasperation in Barbara’s voice, but it was there nonetheless. He wondered how many times she must have gone through this conversation in her head to have called him so late. “Do you think everybody just sat down and had a lovely chat over cookies and tea after you left?”

“No, I think B houdinied his way out of there as if nothing had happened. Again.”

“Well, he tried.” He could practically hear her grin through the comm. line. “Except Tim clocked him in the face. Twice. Once for all the crap he pulled last Halloween and once for up and mock-dying on us.”

“Did someone take video?” He would pay to see that. Robin slapping Batman... It was so surreal that people hardly ever believed it. Dick had never done it and had sounded downright horrified when Jason had told him about that one time he had hit Bruce to get him out of a Poison-Ivy-induced hypnosis. He hadn’t been sure whether the new Robin would be willing to go that far, but he was glad the answer was yes. He would need that if Bruce really was back in Gotham for good.  Maybe they could avoid running into him on patrol, but undoubtedly Ghost’s investigations would eventually overlap with Robin’s and Red Hood’s. He had already gotten he jump on them with the mass poisoning case, which essentially meant that they had set aside a large part of the Batcomputer’s resources for redundant and ultimately useless research. He had already tried to access their network without Oracle’s approval. It would only be a matter of time until his control-freak-streak and OCD would kick in and he would try to tell them how to do their jobs. Jason wasn’t sure if he’d be able to take it. He didn’t want to deal with him. He didn’t want to talk to him ever again. Perhaps, the time had come to go back to full solo patrol.

“No video, sadly,” Oracle finally continued. “But, hey, at least two of you got to vent your frustration.”

 _And one of you didn’t._ With Barb, what was _not_ said was often more important than what _was_ said. Something was up with Dick. Something worse than just the shock from having his previously-believed-dead father returned to him. Perhaps there was more to Dick’s frantic, paranoid messaging than he had initially believed. He would sort it out once he had found a clue as to where Day had run off to for his Thanksgiving masterpiece.

If he found a clue...

“Son of a fucking bitch.”

“What’s wrong?”

He wondered if ‘everything’ would be an acceptable answer, but ultimately decided to stick to the case. All the emotional crap was secondary. “I’m at one of Day’s safehouses. Got a calendar on the wall with a dollar bill next to the 24th, but other than that there is nothing here that tells me what he’s got planned for today. Evidence of previous crime celebrations, yes. Evidence of Thanksgiving, nope.” His mind went through the list of items in the room that looked slightly out of place at first, but made sense in context. The fountain pens. The PTSD self-help-group cards. The adoption flyer for Saint Miriam’s. Maybe they were trophies, collected from the people he had killed, or the places where he had killed them. Maybe they were just his idea of theme-appropriate décor. Either way, there was nothing here that related to Thanksgiving. He checked the clock on his visor and grimaced. 18:40 hours. It was just about the average time for dinner. Some poor schmuck and their family would be dead soon. There had to be something—

“Well, assuming he wants to continue increasing his headcount, he will be striking somewhere public,” Oracle reasoned. He could hear the faint tapping of her fingers on a keyboard in the background, no doubt drawing up lists of public Thanksgiving dinners, donations and charity galas as she was speaking. “And the message at the Royal said ‘go join your loved ones in time for dinner’, implying that whoever he is trying to hit would still be a work.”

“Who’s still working at dinner time on Thanks— Oh, shit.” It made sense now. All hands on deck. No vacation allowed. A dollar bill on the calendar. Dollars. _Cash_. “Oracle, I need the Commish’s current location and his home address.”

“Home address is on the mainland, near Robinson Park. Robin is in that area, looking for Tetch. Forwarding it now. ” Her voice had become cold steel. Nobody messed with the GCPD. Not on Barb’s watch. “As for Aaron, he’s on Bleake. GCPD is sponsoring dinner today since no one’s allowed to go home for the holiday. I’ll call them right now.”

 _Bleake Island..._ _Good_. Only one bridge away from his current location. He grappled up to the rooftops and was on Mercy Bridge within less than a minute.

 _GCPD..._ a building full of cops who had every reason to arrest him. _Not so good_.

The parking area in front of the building was already busy when he got there. Several employees in the light blue uniforms of Price Catering were busy unloading three vans full of food, carrying brightly colored boxes into the building. Whatever Day had put in the meals to kill everyone in the building, it would almost certainly work faster and more efficiently than the poisoned candy. And he would be there to see it. There was no time to lose. With a deep sigh, Jason grappled off the bridge and onto the parking lot, and brought out the guns. The delivery guy closest to him nearly dropped his box. “Oh god, don’t hurt me!”

“Put down the box and I won’t.” His first impulse had been to say ‘drop the box’, but thankfully his brain had managed to do a double-take before his mouth had reacted. There was no telling just what Day had planned for them. For all he knew, he might have put explosives in every can of soda. At the very least, no one argued. He watched carefully as the boxes were set down and hands were raised. “Good, now all of you assemble over by the gate and stay away from the goods. Someone’s tempered with your merch.”

He waited until everyone had followed his orders before grappling up to the row of windows lining the third floor. According to his tactical vision mode, everyone but the front desk sergeant was on the third floor, clustered inside the main office. The sight left a sour taste in his mouth and made his stomach turn. There was no way he was going to snipe Day through one of the windows, like he had originally hoped he might. Not without hitting someone else in the process. No, he had to do this manually, in the truest sense of the word, and that meant it would be as easy for Day to kill everyone in there, as it would be easy for them to riddle Red Hood with holes. He was willingly walking into a confined space full of trained officers armed to the teeth. “I’ve gotta be out of my mind.”

“You’re also out of luck,” Oracle’s voice came clear through the comm. line. “I’m looking at the camera feed right now. Unless Day lost at least fifty pounds since he was last seen, none of the delivery guys in there match his general body type and face recognition is coming back negative, too.”

None of the delivery guys... Which meant Day had most likely taken an officer’s uniform. He scanned the room quickly. Most of the cops did not match his description either, but it was hard to be sure with everyone huddled together so closely. Through his audio filters, Cash’s baritone came loud and clear, informing his fellow officers around him of the situation. Immediately, everyone took a step back from the food that had been set up in the middle of the room. It broke up the masses a little, but not enough.

He had just about convinced himself to take the suicide leap and break through the window when he spotted him. It was not unusual for one officer to stand guard by the elevator. What was unusual was the item in his hands. The small, oval object came up in glaring yellow in his tactical vision. He knew what it was even before he watched him pull the pin. The Arkham Knight had specifically supplied his troops with these. Minimal structural damage, maximum shrapnel coverage. “Oh fuck!”

The shot went clear through the window, past four cops who jumped and immediately whirled around into the direction of the broken glass and straight into the chest of the wolf in sheep’s clothing by the elevator. He followed the bullet instantly, thankful to have the helmet shielding his face as he broke through the window and jumped forward to flip over the table with the food on it. He had barely had the time to shout ‘duck’ when the grenade exploded, sending a thousand tiny splinters of over-heated, razor-sharp metal flying across the room. When he got up again and turned to inspect the tabletop, it looked like someone had used the wood as a pin-cushion. The elevator arrived with a loud ring, but the man who had called it was lying dead on the floor. Zero beats per minute. Target neutralized. Job done.

“Everyone ok?” A quick glance around already told him that the answer was very definitely no. Almost everyone behind the desk had been fine, but not everyone by the sidelines had taken cover in time. “Oracle, we need an ambulance here, stat.” He started left of the table, analyzing and triaging as he went along. Nobody was dead, yet, but those metal shards were designed to embed themselves deep in the tissue and wander with each movement. Every time he saw someone trying to get up from the floor, he made a point to push them back down again.

“Everybody check for shrapnel. If you were hit, don’t try to remove it and DON’T MOVE. You’ll only make it worse.” As far as it could be made worse. He counted two fatalities, a catering employee who had taken a shard straight into the carotid artery and an officer who had been hit straight in the eye. There were at least half a dozen people in the room whose vitals were dropping quickly. From outside of the building, the grating sound of ambulance sirens came through the broken window. It was time to leave. Preferably while everyone was busy tending to the injured. He already had his foot on the window sill when he heard the voice of Commissioner Aaron Cash carry over the general commotion. The muscles in his arms tensed almost instinctively. He had hoped to get out of here without a fight.

“Red Hood, wait!”

“So you can arrest me?” He hoped the answer was no. Contrary to what Bruce and the others probably thought of him, he wasn’t actively trying to antagonize the GCPD with his illegal gun usage. He really didn’t want to take out Cash just to get out of the building.

“So you can explain what the hell happened here.”

“Dead scumbag by the elevator is Julian Day. That grenade he used is Arkham Knight militia tech. Check the evidence locker.”

He shot the grapple up towards the roof without waiting for the answer. The longer he delayed, the higher the chances someone would try to detain him.

As it was, he had already taken too long.

There was hardly any delay between the familiar sound of a cape cutting through the air and the harsh impact of an armored boot against his left shoulder. He tried to absorb the shock by rolling, only to get a nasty cracking sound in return. The crowbar-induced scar on his back was ablaze in fresh pain as it connected harshly with the grated floor on the roof. When he finally managed to pick himself up again, he was face to face with the one person he had not wanted to run into tonight.

“You killed him.”

 _And straight to the heart of the matter._ He pushed his shoulder back sharply and gritted his teeth against the pain as another loud crack told him that everything was back in place. Too bad it would still hurt for at least the rest of the week. “What? First you glide kick me into a roof and now I don’t even get a ‘hello’?”

“We do not kill.”

He wasn’t sure what it was that lit the fuse, the words he said or the tone he used. Or maybe it was the predictability of the conversation. Of course Bruce had not shown up to see if everything was ok. Of course his first thought was not the physical integrity of the kid he had once dared to call his son. It never had been. Not with Jason. The gun on his right was out of the holster instantly. “YOU do not kill. You are not like me and I am not like you. When will you finally get that through your thick skull?”

“Jason—“

“Field names, Ghost!” It almost made him want to laugh. All the flack he had caught for the occasional slip up during his early days as Robin and now here he was enforcing protocol. “What are you gonna do now, huh? Lock me up in Blackgate? I mean you would probably go for Arkham if it were still habitable and functional, but—“

“Red Hood—“

The flash bang erupted into red smoke and screeching noise instantly and he vaulted off the side of the building. He waited until the last moment to connect his grapple to the monorail and swing back onto Mercy Bridge. Each landing sent fresh spikes of pain through his bruised back, shoulder and ankle, but he bit his lips against the pain. He had had to make it to the Miagani tunnels with all their steel and concrete blocking all radio waves at least.

***

In the end, their little game of cat and mouse had taken him all the way through Miagani and halfway through Founders’ Island, where he had only lost him thanks to a dispatch call about a hostage situation in progress at Queen Industries in Ryker Heights. He circled back to one of the many warehouses in the Cauldron through Drescher and Chinatown, foiling a mugging and two drug deals along the way. Even that had taken more out of his damaged shoulder than it should have.

It was safe to say that tonight was not his night.

He reached for the cigarettes inside his hoodie only to find that he had lost his lighter sometime during his run through Gotham’s concrete jungle. He stared at the cigarettes with newly found disdain. “Fuck my life.”

When he got up to return to his safehouse, he found himself face to face with another vigilante in black. “Not you, too...” Somewhere in the deepest darkest depths of his mind, the memories sprang up immediately. The bloody handprint on his suit. The look of utter disgust on that handsome face. 

_You are a disgrace to this family. Why didn’t you just stay dead?! We were better off without your whiny ass!_

“B already gave me the lecture.” _Well, he tried anyway_. It wasn’t his fault that Jason hadn’t stuck around to listen. He had no intention to stick around for this either. Particularly since every second he remained in the open was another chance for Batman to find him. “We don’t kill. I am an evil monster. You are all disappointed. I get it.”

The look of hurt that fluttered across Dick’s face was brief, but unmistakable. For a moment, his body twitched, as if he was ready to lunge forward. Jason could tell that it took him all he had to remain exactly where he was, on the opposite side of the roof. For all the amazing acting Dick Grayson was capable of, he was crap when it came to keeping an emotionally acceptable distance to people.

“Are you okay, Hood?”

“Am I... Am I okay?” That question drew a hysterical laugh from his throat that made his scarred lungs light up worse than any cigarette. “Am I okay... Well, let’s see... I nearly got fragged, had a lovely run-in with B—“

“I know. I saw the camera footage.” Of course he had. There were cameras all over the GCPD roof. Cameras Oracle had access to. Cameras whose footage she would definitely have grabbed and almost certainly have shared. He had thought Nightwing had returned to Blüdhaven after the reunion at Bracken, but apparently not. “He injured your left shoulder.”

 “I killed Julian Day tonight.” He was not going to have this conversation. Not when the outcome was so predictable. Not when the adrenaline in his body was already fading. If he was going to need to escape again, he was going to do it while he still had some fire left.

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“That’s what it’s going to come down to, isn’t it? You can act all concerned and good-big-brother-like now, but at the end of the day none of it is going to matter. At the end of the day, I’m still the killer in the family. At the end of the day, you still hate me for that. Go ahead. Let me have it. I’d rather get it over with now. No sugar-coating.”

“Is that--?” For a moment, Dick almost looked speechless. It was a rare sight. Jason clenched his fists. This was going to get ugly. He made sure to keep his eyes on those Kevlar-gloved hands that could be so deadly, with or without escrima sticks. “Is that how you think this works? That we either love you or hate you?” Kevlar-gloved hands that were quickly running through pitch-black hair mottled by the white flakes that were still falling. He was pacing, too, leaving soft prints all over the roof. If he had enabled the tactical vision mode of his helmet, Jason was sure he could have seen Dick’s pulse go through the roof.

“Ja—Red, Julian Day was about to chuck a primed fragmentation grenade at you and a room full of cops. Unless you start killing innocent civilians in cold blood, you are NOT the monster you think we see you as. And even if you did: you are my brother. I will always love you. I will always care about you. Nothing, I repeat NOTHING, will ever change that. THAT is what it’s going to come down to. And I can imagine it’s hard for you to believe a single word I’m saying right now, after all the crap you’ve been through, but I mean it. I really, REALLY do.”

At last, the pacing stopped. He wasn’t sure what exactly it was that he could see in Dick’s azure eyes – frustration, pain, sadness? – but whatever it was, it felt like a knife to the gut. “And I’m so sorry, Jason. I’m so sorry that I always seem to say and do the wrong things when it comes to you. Maybe that’s why I tucked my tail in yesterday. You cleaned house with Bruce. So did Tim. I chickened out. There were so many things I should have called him out on, but I didn’t, and now you’re here and you’re hurt again...”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, stop feeling sorry for yourself!” He kicked a loose shingle off the warehouse roof and watched it shatter into dozens of pieces on the concrete floor beneath. “The last thing I want is you wallowing in self-pity.”

“Then what do you want, Jason? What do you want us to do? What do you need?”

He had already opened his mouth to reply when he realized his brain had yet to provide an answer.

_What do I want? What do I need?_

He honestly couldn’t recall the last time someone had asked him those questions, or if someone had ever asked at all. Maybe, potentially, Alfred, oh-so-many years ago. He wasn’t sure if he could give a straight answer even if someone did. Of course, there were a couple of strictly pragmatic things, immediate necessities of life like food, safe shelter and supplies, but beyond that, nothing had ever seemed relevant. Everything else was luxury. And luxury, while nice, was a temporary thing. He had learned that the hard way. The only thing worse than not having something, was having it only to lose it. He had gone through all that crap once. He was not going to do it to himself again.

The flash bang grenade went off without a hitch. 


	8. All Roads Lead To Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some wounds never fully heal. That is a lesson Jason has already learned. What he hasn't learnt yet is that if the road to hell is paved with good intentions, then the road out of hell is a roundabout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back, dear readers! Happy 2017! I hope you stocked up on your fluff and cheer over the holidays, because, oh boy, are we back for more of this story...

The safehouse was dead and cold when he slipped through the window, as was the shower ten minutes later, even though he had turned the tap all the way to hotter than hot as soon as he had closed and secured the windows behind himself. Jason cursed under his breath and made a mental note to add the broken shower to the long list of things-the-landlord-should-fucking-fix-but-never-did. For a moment, he thought about making his way back to Bristol, to his safehouse near Salvation Bridge, but he dismissed the idea almost immediately. Any minute spent out there was another chance for Ghost to catch up.

He’d rather stay in this frozen morgue in Chinatown.

His pistols remained loaded, lying on top of the toilet’s water tank right next to him as he set to examining the damage in front of the bathroom mirror. He could see the blood soaking through his shirt and hoodie long before he got a glimpse of the injury, but he still pouted at the sight of the nasty cut on his shoulder. Those had quite possibly been the cleanest stitches he had ever gotten. The threads had already come out. The surface layers of his skin had already healed. Hell, he had even started to use that shoulder again like a normal person would. And now the skin was open and torn again, gaping wide as if his shoulder were crying out alongside the little, hurt boy inside of him.

“Fuck! Couldn’t have kicked me in the right shoulder, could he?”

The rub of disinfectant hurt. The needle hurt even more. He was rubbish with stitches and working on a not so easily accessible part of his own body, with only a cracked bathroom mirror for aid, was not helping. The fresh patch of gauze left his skin feeling itchy and he made sure to apply extra tape to hold it in place. He had a feeling this was going to be long night.

***

In his dreams, Batman and Joker were arguing about whether he should be kept in Blackgate or Arkham. Jason’s input on the matter was restricted to desperate, muffled cries through the duct tape that was covering his mouth and binding his arms and legs to the chair he was on. He watched them haggle over his immediate future like two cod sellers at the Drescher fish market.

“Come on, Batsy, he’s beautifully insane and he’s even got my name on him! The boy has potential!”

“Jason’s not insane and he is not yours. He is my son. My responsibility.”

And apparently, according to the infinite wisdom of the bat, fatherly responsibility included locking your own child up in a max security prison. Who knew? Their arguments repeated over and over, like a broken record. He was just about ready to tune it out, to give in to the sweet, alluring lull of that other part of him, the one that promised that he could take the pain, that he could save them, that he had done it before and he would do it again, only better. He was just about ready to put Jason to sleep when a familiar set of black-clad legs emerged from the shadows to his right. The legs bent and a lightning blue V-shape came into his line of sight. The spark of hope that shot through his chest was almost ridiculous.

Dick had come. He had come for him, to save him from this madness. The smile on his lips was warm and reassuring as always, as he crouched by Jason’s right side and put a hand on his arm. If he had been able to move even an inch, Jason might have leaned into the touch. Instead, all he could do was nod in his older brother’s direction with a muffled sob.

“What is it, Jaybird? What do you need?”

_I need you to get me out of this chair. I need you to get me away from those two psychopaths. I need you to help me, Dick. Please…_

Next to him, the smile slowly faltered ever so slightly. Dick shook his head and leaned in closer. “Sorry, little bro, can’t understand a word of what you are saying. Come again?”

He tried once more, but the duct tape swallowed his words. The relief that flooded him as Dick removed it was as insane as it was short-lived. His lips did not move. Something strange and disgusting was keeping them shut. Dick’s thumb ran across them gently and the smile finally failed completely.

“Those are some pretty messed up stitches, Jaybird. You really should have let Tim handle them. He’s better at this than you.” Suddenly, the hand withdrew, as if Jason’s lips were made of fire. On Nightwing’s face, mild concern warped slowly into blatant disgust. “Actually, he’s better than you at pretty much everything. Why am I even wasting my time here?”

On the other side of the room, Joker had disappeared, even though his laughter still echoed through the halls. Jason watched in dread as Ghost approached in firm, steady steps, face unflinching, hands curled into fists by his side. Nightwing got up slowly and looked at his former mentor with that familiar gaze that yearned for approval.

“I am sorry, Jason.” Was he really? Jason couldn’t tell. Bruce’s voice sounded as flat and void of any emotion as always. “But you killed. I _have to_ take you in. We are going to Blackgate.”

 _NO!_ He refused. He couldn’t. Not after all he had been through. Not after how far he had come. This couldn’t be how it ended. This— _no. Just no, no, no, no, no!_ He looked up at Dick once more and hoped his eyes conveyed the desperation that his mouth could not. Two azure eyes smiled back at him sympathetically.

“Sorry, Jaybird, but if you can’t even tell me what you want, then I really can’t help you.”

This time, he did not wake up screaming. The sheets were not torn. His vocal chords were not raw. Instead, his pillow was cold and wet and the corners of his eyes felt like they were on fire. He probed them carefully with his right hand and licked his index finger.

He tasted salt.

***

By the second time he woke up, the world outside his tiny window had turned both white and black at the same time. If the sun hadn’t set completely yet, it must have been close, even though it was hard to tell, what with the snow piled up almost to the top edge of the window. He hit the ‘ON’ button on the radio next to his bed and was not surprised to hear frantic reports of a major blizzard, several series of severe traffic jams, road blocks and accidents, and a myriad of cold weather hazard warnings as soon as the old box sprang alive. Winter had been arriving in the Gotham area by late November for thousands of years and yet people still seemed surprised and shocked out of their minds when the snow finally appeared.

Barb had been right. Ninety-nine percent of all people were just plain stupid.

His cigarettes and lighter were next. The cold smoke hurt in his lungs, but it also banished the last few hazy bits of sleep that had been clinging to his mind.

Julian Day was dead. Whatever horrible death traps he had planned for December, they wouldn’t have to worry about them now. That was the good news. He rolled out of bed, ready to start his usual routine of black coffee and morning exercises, but he didn’t even make it out of his bedroom.

The pain that speared into his right ankle was instantaneous, sharp and relentless. It was as if someone had rammed a dozen railroad spikes into his leg. Jason couldn’t remember it hurting that much since the last time it had been broken and the thought immediately turned his gut to ice. Had Bruce broken the bone at Bracken? _He couldn’t have…_ If it were broken, Jason doubted he would have been able to walk, much less run, jump and grapple last night, but he had to be sure. He hobbled over to the closet, retrieved his helmet from the hidden compartment beneath the fake drawer and instantly switched to tactical vision. Relief washed over him as the search for new fractures came back empty. Just nerve damage, then.

 _Just. Nerve. Damage_.

That was a sad silver lining if he had ever seen one. He tried to stretch out his arms only to get the same searing feeling in his left shoulder and his back all the way down to the crowbar scar. His right shoulder felt quite a bit better, but still nowhere near good enough. Even so much as trying to raise his arms above his head left him biting his lips in agony and he tucked them back to his side quickly. It was going to be another one of _those_ days then…

The first time it had happened had been back in Santa Prisca, not even three months after his escape from Arkham. It had been November then as well. He had been in the middle of one of his earliest, tentative running, jumping and grappling exercises when he had landed badly on his right foot. His legs had given out in an instinctive protective mechanism before he had even registered what had happened. Just as instinctively, his body had turned, trying to roll off the fall over his shoulder rather than ramming face first into the rooftop he had landed on. Proper bracing and rolling was among the very first things he had been taught and it had saved him many times. Except back then, all it had done was send his shoulders and back howling with pain. He had screamed his agony into the dead alleys of La Panza, blinking through the red haze and biting down on his knuckles to avoid biting off his tongue until the pain had eventually faded from crippling and excruciating to barely manageable. The four mile trip back to his hotel room had taken him three hours, a long trek of hobbling, dragging and crawling. It was a miracle he had not been mugged, raped or murdered on his way back home that night. He couldn’t have painted a bigger target on his back even if he had worn typical tourist clothes that said something stupid like ‘I Love Santa Prisca’. His punishment had been four days in bed, with every turn and even the slightest bit of pressure on the affected areas having him curl into a ball.

There was no way he was exercising today, much less leaving the house to go on patrol.

“Fuck you, Bruce!” It was _his_ fault. There was no other explanation as to why the pain in his right shoulder was manageable, but the one in the left was not. He could have dealt with the right shoulder. He might have run a little slower, punched a little less often and generally tried to put as little strain on his body as possible, but he would have managed a few hours of patrol. Maybe not a full night, but a few hours, definitely. Now he was stuck in an oversized figurative freezer with a nearly empty literal freezer. “I really should have put a bullet in you at Bracken…”

The few steps to his kitchen were pure pain, but he gritted his teeth through the biting sensation. There was no way he was going back to bed, to sleep. If he couldn’t go on patrol, at least he could work on his casefiles. Dick had grabbed a ton of data from all the tech they had gotten out of Whaler’s Arch. If he compared that with the serial numbers of all the Arkham Knight evidence secured by GCPD and his own, full database, at least he might get an idea of just how much of the militia’s gear was still floating around the black markets of Gotham and Blüdhaven. He grimaced at the nearly empty fridge and fixed himself two egg-white omelets and three cups of black coffee. If anyone needed proof that he barely used this safehouse at all, it was right there. He stopped by the electric heater on his way back to the bedroom to get some warmth into this shoebox he was stuck in, then settled back into bed with his laptop and phone on his stretched out legs and his breakfast on the bedside table.

For once, there were no messages on his voice mail. Dread settled in his gut. Had something happened to Dick? The trackers hidden in his phone’s calendar showed nothing out of the ordinary. Or maybe this was just the inevitable part where Goldie had finally given up on him. He had been expecting it, but even so the thought left a bitter taste in his mouth that he couldn’t quite identify.

“Get a grip, Todd.” He tried to wash the bitterness down with a cup of coffee. This was ridiculous. He had survived for months, even years, without Dick and the others. There was no reason he should be feeling anything right now, except for the pain from his nerve damage. He opened the Swan casefiles and GCPD evidence registry and started his first query. The comm. request popped up only ten seconds later. To his surprise, it was Oracle, not Nightwing, whose face greeted him through the slightly grainy image.

“Good morning, Red—“ The smile on her face faltered within an instant. He watched her mute the stream while she muttered something, probably on a private line to Robin. He didn’t even need three guesses to figure out what that conversation must have been about. Only a few seconds later, her voice was back. “Okay, line’s private now. Jason, where are you and what’s going on? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you on a Batcom line without your helmet.”

“Long story.” One that he did not want to go into detail of, thank you very much. He willed the muscles in his face to be perfectly still as he gave his brain a few seconds to figure out which subtle strategy of information mining she would probably apply to get all the details out of him. “Short version: old damage flaring up. The less you know, the better.” Which was his way of saying ‘don’t ask, won’t tell’. Judging from the slight frown on Barbara’s face, she was considering it a lousy answer. “Bottom line is that I won’t be going on patrol tonight. Figured I’d go for database work and some maintenance on my gear instead.”

Judging from the look on Barbara’s face, anger and worry were having a fierce battle inside her brain. Jason decided to ignore it as he dug into the results of his first query. On screen, the text ’78 Results Found’ flared up in bright red. _Shit._ This was not good. “Oracle, get a message to GCPD. Someone has been swiping militia gear from their evidence lockers.” His fingers raced across the keyboard as he traced the relevant items. In the end, it all came back to one station. “Tell them to let IAD have a closer look at Burnley personnel, that’s where all the gear has been disappearing from. We’re talking mostly camo, jammers and scanners – proprietary tech specifically tailored to taking down Batman.”

Strangely enough, the selection made sense. Any good black market racketeer could get a crate of assault rifles or even military drones within a few days. But this stuff... hell, if he hadn’t been running an illegal black-ops operation, he could have patented it and lived off the royalties for the rest of his life. He was already running the serial numbers from both databases against the Arkham Knight’s full list of Operation Savior gear when he realized that Oracle had not answered him yet. He looked up only to find himself facing a pair of blue eyes that looked ready to burn a hole through him.

“Jason, I know you are nothing if not tough and determined. I have _personally_ seen you stay in a fight even despite broken bones, concussions, severe dehydration and sheer physical exhaustion, so I am only going to ask this once: Just how bad is this ‘old damage’ if it is enough for you to _voluntarily ground yourself_ and how much of it ‘flaring up’ now is Bruce’s fault?”

Jason bristled. He wished there was an easy answer for that, but he might as well have hoped for that blizzard outside his window to suddenly die and make way for beach-time weather. No matter what he told her now, he was in for a long, _long_ and painful discussion of at least half a dozen things he didn’t even want to think about. “We are not having this conversation.”

“Yes, we are.”

“No, we aren’t.”

“Jason—“

“ORACLE, SHUT UP!” He wasn’t sure where the rage had come from, but he could practically feel his blood pressure spike through the roof. Didn’t he have enough crap to deal with already? Did they have to do this now? Unfortunately, shouting had only made his muscles tense, which in turn had merely intensified the stinging in his shoulders. He balled his fingers into fists against the pain to avoid having any of it show on his face. “I don’t need your pity. I’ve had enough of this.” _And I can still disconn—_

“Don’t you dare hang up on me,” Oracle admonished, true to her moniker. If she was even the slightest bit intimidated, she was covering it up really, really well with a blank stare that could have bored through titanium. “Bruce may not have enough common sense to simply search for apartments leased in your real name, but I do. And I have your tracker signal. I can have Robin and/or Nightwing at your place in a flash, if I want to.”

“Too bad I absolutely don’t have _any_ experience in vanishing off the grid before anyone else knows what’s going on...” He tried to make it sound like a joke, but truth was that his stomach curled into a painful knot at the realization that he was, as a matter of fact, little more than a sitting duck as long as that tracker was still on. The thought of turning it off was tempting, but the memory of what had happened the last time he had done just that was worse than any nerve damage. And the apartments... he had no one to blame for that but himself. He had decided long ago that he was tired of running. If someone wanted to find and murder him, they were welcome to try. With any luck, it might even take off some of the heat that would fall on Dick, Tim or Barb otherwise.

On the other end of the comms line, Oracle’s face softened slightly. “Look, Jason, I’m sorry for pulling this card on you, but I worry, okay? We all do. Just last night it took Robin and me the better part of an hour to talk Dick out of going after you and he’s still twitchy as a rag doll. Please... let us help you, okay? How bad is it and how much of it is Bruce’s fault?”

“Didn’t you say you were only going to ask once?”

Barbara rolled her eyes at him with an exasperated sigh. “Jason... don’t be a Richard.” He stifled the chuckle that threatened to worm its way up his throat. If Dick was listening in on this conversation, Barb had probably put him on mute right about now. “I will ask as many times as I have to in order to get an honest answer out of you. Because I care. We all do.”

 _Because I care... we all do..._ The words bounced around his skull. Was that an adequate reason for cornering someone and not leaving them the fuck alone no matter how much they wanted you to just go away? Perhaps it was. Once upon a time, he had spent his days force-feeding his mother when she was too high to bother with something as trivial as food. Once upon a time, he had spent his nights hounding Bruce, mostly unsuccessfully, when he was putting too much pressure on himself to do everything on his own. He had not backed off when Dick had nearly poisoned himself. He had not backed off when Tim had been hiding in that basement. _Don’t be a Richard_ , not-Robin chided. _And don’t be a Bruce either. You don’t have to shoulder all your troubles all on your own_.

Perhaps it was an adequate reason.

“It’s nerve damage in the shoulders, back and right ankle. Dates back to the asylum.” There was no point in fighting. Barb was nothing if not relentless. If she said she was going to send Robin and Nightwing after him, she was going to do it, and as much as the thought of a straight-up brawl made him feel all warm and tingly and _relieved_ inside, the idea of brawling with the state his shoulders were in made his skin crawl. This was a battle he couldn’t win. The sooner they got this over with, the better. “Doesn’t usually get this bad, but extreme weather like this blizzard always makes it worse. Bruce... did not help.”

“That’s a very diplomatic understatement.” Barbara was practically growling through her teeth. “I swear to god, if he sets foot into this tower the first thing he’s getting is fifty-thousand volts to the crotch. Is there anything we can do to help you?”

“No.” Which was part of the reason why he hadn’t wanted to talk about it in the first place. It was pointless. An effort in futility. Not even the best surgeon in the world could have done anything to fix what had been done to him. It was bad enough that he had to deal with it himself. He didn’t need to drag them into this as well and he certainly didn’t want their pity. “But if Bruce does show up at the Clock Tower, I’ll want video of you frying his balls with those escrima sticks in your wheel chair. I know we’ve got every inch of that tower covered by CCTV. Make it happen.” That got him a short, light-hearted laugh and Jason went back to his database, hoping that that was the last they’d talk about it.

Between the records from GCPD’s evidence locker and the transactions they could trace back to White Swan and Black Swan, almost all of the hardware that had not been dismantled by Batman was accounted for. He made two separate lists – one of the missing pieces and one of the pieces he could trace back to the Swans – and put them on the Clock Tower servers. “I just uploaded some data for you guys. Leftover militia tech. Tell Nightwing to keep an eye out for these. I built a lot of this stuff with the explicit intention of killing Batman, after all.”

“Thank you, Jason. Will do.” The stream went mute again for a minute and he used the opportunity to let go of the deep sigh he hadn’t known he had been holding and finish his breakfast. By the time Barb returned her attention to him, he was halfway through his last cup of coffee. “Also, big thanks from Nightwing. Your hunch about the mayor’s secretary was correct. DOB matches Tracey Buxton.”

“Buxton?” He remembered that name. He had seen it multiple times when studying Batman’s old casefiles during his Robin training, most prominently in relation to Cobblepot’s dealings during that fateful Christmas eleven years ago, when Joker had first appeared in Gotham. He accessed the relevant files on the Batcomputer and skimmed them quickly. “Tracey Buxton and Candace Harper. Worked with Penguin eleven years ago, both arrested and incarcerated after Christmas 2005.”

“One Caucasian, liked to dress in white, one African-American, liked to dress in black.”

“White Swan and Black Swan...” Well, there was one cat that was out of the bag now. He brought up the casefile photo of Mayor Anderson’s secretary, Beverly Price, and compared it side by side to Tracey Buxton. The twenty months she had spent in prison had not been kind to her. She had aged horribly, with her hair going from bleached platinum blonde to old-woman-grey and the ounces of make-up on her face barely covering up her wrinkles. Candace Harper had fared significantly better, judging from the picture they had taken of her on her day of release. It was the most recent picture anyone had. Apparently, Candy, as she liked to call herself, was the one with the brains and had been smart enough wrap everyone from the arresting officers to the jury to the prison parole board around her delicate fingers. She had been released after only two thirds of her sentence and had promptly disappeared off the grid.

“The mayor’s secretary did not show up for work today and her apartment is cleared out,” Barbara finally continued. “Dick’s on her trail right now. No sign of Candace Harper yet.”

“Don’t even think about finding her.” Jason had barely reached the end of Candy’s biography, but it told him everything he needed to know. “Girl grew up and survived on Gotham’s streets. According to Dick’s notes, no one but White Swan has ever even spoken to Black Swan and none of the shell companies we’ve identified are run by women. She knows how to cover her tracks and she can smell a bust from a mile away. She probably left on the first plane out of Gotham the very hour that Whaler’s Arch went south.”

It was what he himself would have done. It was what any former street kid with access to enough money would do. You either learn to plan your emergency exit strategies well ahead and react quickly once you need them, or you die. It was as simple as that.

In his case, ‘exit strategy’ eventually boiled down to dropping off the Batcom lines, as soon as all case update briefings were done. Dick protested, or tried to do so at least, while Tim was quick to interrupt him and mutter acknowledgement instead. In the end, Barbara was the one to negotiate what Jason could best describe as a shaky truce: he could stay off comms until he was back on the street, but no more than a week tops. Jason accepted with a low growl through gritted teeth.

When had he become such a lap dog? When had he let himself be roped into this madness on a day-to-day, or even week-to-week basis? It had only been meant to be joint patrols for special occasions like the big holidays. Outside of the constant use of trackers and the strict enforcement of redundant emergency comms, none of it had been meant to be permanent and yet here he was, negotiating for the right – no, _the privilege_ – for everyone to stay out of his fucking business. There was nothing they could do for him and, at least in his current state, there was nothing he could do for them. They could not fix the damage in his body. He could not support them in a fight, so why bother?

 _Why do you bother?_ In his phone calendar, the trackers were glowing in soft green, proving that everyone was still okay. Deep down, the familiar feeling of distrust mingled with anger bubbled up inside his gut as he looked at the three names. _Why do you bother? What’s in it for you?_ He knew what the answer would be if he were to ask. _Because we care about you._ But what was that _you_ they were caring about? The broken mess who had tried to blow up Gotham, who was still running around gunning thugs down left, right and center? How long was that going to last? How long until they would give up? How long until this deceptively beautiful truce they had come to would end? How long until the eventual disappointment?

With a loud cry of fury, Jason threw his laptop off the bed and set out to retrieve his gear.

***

Eventually, the pain really had lasted for the entire week. On the worst day, he had barely been able to move out of bed. Thankfully, his order from Wayne Tech had arrived the same day (express delivery courtesy of one Mr. Fox) and he had promptly set to building another six helmets. On the best day, someone had apparently kicked the landlord’s ass hard enough to get him to repair the broken heater and Jason had woken up to cozy seventy-nine degrees Fahrenheit in his apartment. He had almost wanted to cry for joy.

On December 2nd, he had sent a short text message through the Batcom letting them know that he was still alive and about to head out, followed by the words ‘do not tail me’. Strangely enough, as he had been making his way through Bleake systematically, one block at a time, interrupting the common attempts at drug dealing, robbery, rape and murder, and sending data from two new crime scenes off to GCPD, not a single flash of red, blue or black had been following him. There was, of course, the possibility that he was simply too distracted by the residual pain that lingered in his limbs to notice, but he decided to give Tim and Dick at least the benefit of the doubt.

“And let’s be honest, if Bats were tailing me, he’d already have tried to arrest me,” Jason muttered through the comms line as he drew a deep breath from his cigarette, right leg dangling off one of the metal beams of Mercy Bridge to give the ankle some rest. He had hoped to make it to Miagani, too, but three hours in Bleake had been enough to remind him that no one could force progress with nerve damage. “Do we have any idea what _he_ is up to these days?”

“Still tracing the source of the Halloween sleep poison,” Oracle replied. “Apparently, we’ve got a new mad scientist on the loose. B actually came by the Clock Tower the other day to get access to the servers and the databases on them.”

Because remote accessing them no longer worked. Because Barb had updated all their systems right after Halloween 2015 and no one, not even the World’s Greatest Detective, could get past her firewalls. Jason smiled at the idea of Bruce sitting in his own new Batcave at Bracken, desperately trying to access what had once been _his_ main information pool, only to get one ‘Access denied’ message after the other. He could just picture his growing frustration minute by minute. It was beautiful.

“So, did you hit him in the crotch with your escrima sticks?”

Barbara laughed. “I would have, if the server room flooding with non-lethal tear gas two seconds after unauthorized entry would not have made him escape through the window and contact me through the comms instead of coming to apologize in person. I opened a line for him so I could hear his excuse.”

“Which was?”

“Since when did B ever make excuses?” He could practically hear Barbara roll her eyes over the comm. “Actually, he tried to chew me out for our new security measures. I told him desperate times required desperate measures and that that’s what he got for abandoning us and lying to us for a year.”

“Bastard has no idea how lucky he is...” If it had been Jason, and only Jason, redesigning the Clock Tower security system, there would have been automated, pop-up turrets on every door and window, shielded, camouflaged and triple backed-up to ensure everything worked flawlessly. Barb had taken his suggestion and downgraded it to replacing bullets with the same stuff SWAT used for crisis management.

“I did give him access to the databases in the interest of the mission, but not the casefiles. I told him he was welcome to get access to the shared casefiles and _only_ the shared casefiles, if he were to apologize for how he treated you and then ask me nicely.”

“He just cut the line, didn’t he?” The silence that followed was all the answer he needed. He wondered what had stopped him: the apology, the asking part or both. Either way, it would be a while until Bruce would get a hold of all the data he wanted so much and with it the chance to tell everyone what to do. It was childish and petty, but somehow he was ready to count it as a victory nonetheless. Perhaps that was a good note to end the night on. “Well, at least now he knows what it feels like to get brushed off with crude remarks and a scowl. I’m gonna call it a night. Let me know if any emergencies come up.”

“And lo, there was much scowling...” Robin landed on top of the central pillar of Mercy Bridge with a soft thud that was very nearly swallowed by the rain. But only very nearly. Jason looked up wearily to see him grin from ear to ear. There was a nasty cut on his right cheek that looked not even half an hour old. Jason made a mental note to ask about it later. “Great choice of locale, Hood. Most of us avoid this place like the plague.”

“That was the point.” He knew why. This was where they had gotten the video, right here on that bridge. This was where they had all decided to give up on him back then. It felt fitting coming here to wait for the inevitable sermon that would end the truce they had going on. One tiny little corner choke full of misery. “If it’s about the two scumbags near Merchant Bridge, save it for someone who cares.” Scumbags was really too kind a word. Anyone who tried to pimp a twelve-year-old girl’s ass in the dead of the night, so close to Panessa and the GCPD no less, deserved to be pumped full of lead.

“Actually, I came by to thank you for making it _only_ those two scumbags.” If balancing on top of the slippery spire of metal was difficult, Tim did not let it show, even as he bent forward slightly. “I mean, sure the rest of them ended up in ICU, but I appreciate the restraint. Also, many thanks from everyone at GCPD for how you handled Day. You saved a lot of lives.”

“I also took one,” he flung the words away together with his cig. “I’m pretty sure I’m still on GCPD’s wanted list.”

“I think Cash’s exact words were ‘cannot condone does not equal cannot be grateful’.”

“Fucking hypocrites.” He mulled the words over in his head. Underhanded gratitude was probably the closest thing to appreciation he would ever get for all the crap he put himself through, but the saddest part was that even that was still a step up from Batman’s no-thanks -for-you attitude. Just how pathetic was it that even this little under-the-table acknowledgment made him feel even slightly better? “Tell him he’s welcome.”

***

Miagani was next, then Founders, then South Gotham, then Gotham East. St. Miriam’s was still rubble and ashes. He doubted it was ever going to be rebuilt and the thought left a sour taste in his mouth. He had seen to it that the only two children he had been able to rescue, Jane and Logan, had been put straight into Bruce Wayne’s _Second Chance_ program, where they would hopefully soon end up in families that actually had the money and the intent to care for two children who had been through so much already, but that was all he had been able to do about it. The thought left him feeling physically sick. It wasn’t fair that that was all he could do, given that he had invented the technology that had destroyed this place.

 _Nightwing has tracked almost all of it_ , not-Robin reminded him. That was the silver lining and Jason was infinitely grateful for the thoroughness and perseverance Dick had put into hunting down what was left of the Knight’s technology while Jason had been confined to his apartment. All the bombs were off the road and so was most of the firepower. There were still a number of jammers, trackers and camouflaging units floating around Gotham’s and Blüdhaven’s black markets, but at the very least, jammers, trackers and camouflage units could not kill anyone. He took some comfort in that.

He had been on the mainland for only two days, investigating the disappearances of several homeless children, the next time Robin landed beside him, light as a feather. Another storm had rolled into Gotham, leaving the city covered in grayish-white. Robin’s blood red vest stood out like a sore thumb, but with the red hood, who was he to call him out on it? _At least_ , Jason thought glumly as he pressed his back closer to the chimney that was shielding him from the worst of the flurry, _at least all the whitish colors will make it a little easier to spot the Bat._

“Perfect weather for patrol isn’t it?” For once, Robin sounded not the least bit amused or cocky. His eyes were hidden by the lenses of the cowl, but if the thin line of his mouth was anything to go by, he despised the cold just as much as Jason did. There were some things even thermo fleece could not fix.

“What now? Am I encroaching on your territory?” Technically, they did not have territories. Practically, Robin had spent almost every day since Halloween on the mainland, whereas Red Hood had stuck to the islands. “Well, too bad for you. I’m not leaving until I figure out where half the kids between Tanner’s Road and Woodfort Avenue have disappeared off to.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you to leave,” Robin objected as he drew the hood of his cape closer and wrapped himself in the black Kevlar to keep out the chill. “On the contrary. I was going to ask you for an assist.”

Jason raised his eyebrows at that and he was sure the gesture registered even despite the helmet. He hadn’t teamed up with any of them for more than two weeks now and even then he had only done it because he had been fully conscious of the fact that he was walking into a double-sided trap. “Gotta be something special if you’re coming to me for his, instead of Bats or Nightwing.”

“I’m coming to you because you already helped me out here once,” Robin muttered through clenched teeth. He was keeping his breathing low, reducing condensation of his breath to a minimum. A useful technique they had all been taught eventually, though Jason wasn’t sure what brought it on right now. It was not as if they were in the middle of a stakeout or a takedown. “I’ve found Tetch.”

 _The Mad Hatter..._ Jason ran through the casefile in his head. They hadn’t had much of a trace on him since finding the second of his four Alices murdered on the mainland. Sneaky little bastard had turned out to be much more elusive than any of them had anticipated. Then again, Batman had not usually had to search for leads on him. The hatter had usually lured him in, trying to get his hands on the cowl.

“Guess domino masks ain’t that precious...”

“Say what?”

“Just thinking out loud.” It took him four tries to light the cigarette in the damn snow storm, but eventually the familiar feeling of cold smoke crawling into his lungs settled in his gut. Robin frowned at him. _There goes the effort of concealing your breath_. If it hadn’t been for the case at hand, Jason would have grinned under the hood. As it was, he remembered their last encounter with Tetch. He remembered wrestling with a brainwashed, suicidal Robin. He remembered fishing him out of the Bay, dragging him home, wondering if he was going to be alright or if Tetch’s latest mind control device had left any permanent damage. As he mustered his replacement from head to toe, his eyes fell onto the cut on the cheek once more. It was half-healed now, but given how visible it still was, it must have been a pretty deep and nasty cut.

“Alright then, let’s go.” He finished the cig with two more deep breaths and flicked the butt off the building before pointing at Robin’s injured face. “And when we’re done, you’ll tell me how you got that.”

***

Of all the places for Tetch to hide out in, Jason would never have picked an abandoned forge by the edge of the city. The logistics of getting everything he needed for his mind control gadgets and all his fancy drugs over there without attracting attention to the fact that someone was once more living in the little wooden structure must have been hell. Then again, it explained where the soot in Alice Doe Two’s hair and the wood splinters under her finger nails had come from. His initial scan of the building came up empty, but that didn’t mean much. It was entirely possible that Tetch had used some of the Knight’s leftover camouflage tech for more than just the bunny hat he had planted on Robin thirty-eight days ago. Further below, deep under the earth, he could see a hint of three skeletons, two of them sitting side by side, the third and smaller one facing them.

_Thirty-eight days..._

The thought sent shivers down his spine. He remembered what it was like being trapped in the hands of a deranged psychopath for days and weeks. He remembered what it was like to have minutes pass by like days, to wait for a rescue that never came, to wake up each morning hoping for it to have been nothing but a nightmare, only to still be stuck in the same place, the same conditions, with the same pain and horror.

To his left, perched on the branch of an old oak, Robin clenched his fists. “Let’s get in there and put an end to this.”

“About fucking time.”

He grappled in first and went straight for the backdoor of the cottage connected to the forge. It was locked, of course, but when had that ever stopped him? He slipped the lock pick out of his left gauntlet and had the door open with a slight creak within four seconds.

“And there’s one more reason why I wanted you for backup.” Tim’s voice was little more than a whisper and Jason chose to ignore it as he made his way into the hut.

The long table was spotlessly clean and set for cookies and tea for two, but the rest of the empty kitchen was a dirty, neglected mess of shattered pottery and filthy pots and pans. The smell of sugar and herbs almost drowned in the rancid odor of something dead rotting underneath the kitchen sink. The bedroom smelled just as bad and looked even worse. He tried to ignore the pings from his analytical sensors as he did a quick sweep of the room. Even without the forensics filters he could tell that there was blood on the bed. He didn’t need or want to know what else was on there.

The ice-cold forge was last. Above the anvil, a dozen rabbit masks were hanging from the wall, each mocking him with dead, empty eyes. The Hatter’s tools were all over the place and Jason made a note to catalogue all of it later. With a little bit of luck some of the parts would still have serial numbers that he could trace back to whoever supplied Tetch. With a little more luck, it might even lead them back to whoever had helped him put that hat on Robin back in October.

The trap door was camouflaged, as expected, but without the lenses it was almost impossible to miss. The glowing material stood out in stark contrast to the rest of the dirty stone floor. He did a quick sweep for hidden tripwires on the right side while Robin worked on the left. Both came up empty. Clearly Tetch had not expected anyone to find him here. He nodded to Robin as he grabbed the edges of the hatch and lifted on a count of three.

The stairs were narrow, tiny, uneven and covered in years of dirt and dust, except where small prints led up and down again. As Robin slid down into the darkness with quick, soft steps, the familiar sound of grating laughter resurfaced in Jason’s brain. _Not the asylum..._ He balled his hands into fists as he took a deep breath. _No tiles, no furniture covering the trap door, no clowns. Get a grip, Todd. Robin needs you._

From the darkness below, the sound of high-pitched screaming suddenly pierced through the deadly silence. He must have been out of his mind to agree to this. With one last gulp of fresh air, Jason plunged down into the darkness.

Tetch was already down and out for the count by the time he reached the bottom, which was hardly surprising. What was new was the sight of a rescued hostage scrambling away from Robin, of all people. Batman... he had seen that before. He tended to have that effect on people. But Robin?

“Stay away from me!” At first glance, she did look like Alice, but even that was a lie. He could see the brown creep back into her hair at the base where the dye was slowly growing out. The bruises on her arms and legs were all kinds of colors from ‘not even a day old’ to ‘been here for weeks’ and if he wasn’t mistaken, there was a bite mark where her shoulder curved up into her neck. The door to her tiny, filthy cell – _don’t look at the blood, Jason_ – was wide open, but she cowered in the very back, kicking wildly at the hand that was offered to her. “Don’t touch me! Leave me alone!”

“Listen to the lady, Robin.” It took him all of five seconds to grab the replacement by his cape and ram him into the nearest wall. The gun came next. He pressed it hard against his right temple. Anyone in their right mind could see that the safety was still on. He doubted Alice #3 was in her right mind. “Remember who got them into this mess in the first place?” His voice was barely a whisper, but he could see in the way Robin’s shoulders slumped and his face fell immediately that he had understood him just fine. “So shut up and stay down.”

He kept the gun pointed as he moved back to the second cell and kicked the door open. Alice #4 stared at him warily, but with laser focus, waiting for the inevitable bait and switch where ‘rescue’ would turn into ‘bad joke’ and whatever hell Tetch had put her through would continue. He had been there. He knew the feeling. “It’s not your fault.”

He recognized this girl. As he reached for keys that dangled off the bookmark of Hatter’s old, battered copy of _Alice In Wonderland_ , his mind went back to the videos from Mendo’s and My Alibi. She was the first one to wrap herself around Robin’s arm and the first one to let go when they had gotten to that dreadful alley. She was the one who had been trailing farther behind, most likely thanks to not being smashed enough to drown out the primal instincts inside herself that told her that something was very, very wrong. He didn’t want to think about how many hours she must have spent whishing she had just listened and gone back to the club. Compared to the other girl in the room, she was in excellent shape. Apparently, someone had been smart enough to play along until a chance for escape presented itself. “What’s your name?”

“Alice.”

It took him all he had not to flinch at that. Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps she had already passed the horizon. _Bad manners, though_ , Joker cooed in the depths of his mind _. I’m sure we can_ _find a branding iron somewhere up in that forge..._ He swallowed hard to keep the fury that spiked in him at the memory out of his voice. “It’s okay. He can’t hurt you anymore. You’ll be out of here in a minute. What’s your real name?”

“Alice.” She spat the word out like it was poison. “My name _is_ Alice Reed. You gonna hand me the keys now, or what?”

He tossed her the key and was hardly surprised when she caught it. The chain-bound collar around her neck unlocked with a loud clank. She was on her feet and by the other girl’s side within seconds. Soon enough, the other collar followed. He wasn’t surprised when she shot Robin a look that could kill as she led the fake Alice up the narrow stairs.

“Oracle, we’ve got both hostages. We’ll need an ambulance and the GCPD.” He waited until Barbara confirmed that both were on the way before lowering the gun and slipping it back into its holster at last. “You know, for a supposed genius you can be a real idiot sometimes?”

If Robin had any reply for that, Red Hood didn’t stick around to hear it. He took the steps three at a time as he escaped from the dank dungeon and followed the latest trail of two small pairs of slippers through the forge and out of the front door of the hut. It had been a long time since fresh air had felt that good in his lungs, even if it was cold as fuck. He wasn’t the least bit shocked to find both girls out in the cold snow, despite wearing little more than frilly white and blue dresses. It was an invitation for hypothermia and Alice #3 was not helping the situation by scrubbing her skin raw with icy snow. It was a temporary fix. She didn’t know it yet, but he did. He remembered the feeling as he had stepped to freedom four years ago, letting the rain wash him clean of the blood and filth of his prison. The wonderful feeling had lasted all the way until he had fallen asleep. He had woken up feeling just as dirty and soiled as before and he had the scars to prove that it was not just his imagination. Come morning, both these girls were in for another kind of hell.

The curtains came off the kitchen windows with a quick swish. They stank of old food gone bad and years of soot and ash, but the only alternative were sheets or clothes from the bedroom. He doubted either of them would want any part of that. He was faintly aware of Robin hovering by the tree line once more, observing everything from a safe distance. Alice Reed merely nodded at him as he draped the rough fabric with the ghastly flowery pattern around her tiny shoulders. The other girl flinched as soon as he turned to her.

“What’s your name?”

“Alice.”

 _Oh, here we go again_. He wanted to murder Tetch. “Your real name, I mean.”

“It’s Alice. I’m Alice. I have to be Alice. My name is Alice.”

“No, it’s not.” Ms Reed sounded almost insulted. “Your name’s Tess. You told me so the first day we got here.”

“No, I’m Alice. I have to be Alice or he’ll hurt me.” He watched her hunch down by the front door, knees drawn up to her chest, face buried against her legs. “I have to be Alice. I have to be Alice. I have to be a _good_ Alice. A good Alice.” This time, she didn’t move an inch as he covered her with the remaining curtain. Her right hand gripped his forearm like a vice, but he could feel the trembling even through his jacket, the hoodie and the thermal shirt. From underneath a pair of messy blonde bangs, two teary, hazel eyes gazed at him in desperation. “You’ll tell him, right? You’ll tell him I was a good Alice? I didn’t unlock the chain, _she_ did. _She_ dragged me upstairs. I didn’t. I was a good Alice! Please tell him! He’ll be mad if he thinks it was me. Please, sir!”

 _Good manners on this one_ , Joker cooed in return. The persistent echo of laughter in his skull made his insides turned to ice.

_This bastard... This fucking..._

“Sure. I’ll go tell him right now.”

He was back inside and down the stairs before Oracle even had so much as a chance to chime in. The comms line dropped with a sharp buzz as he drew the gun once more. Tetch was still lying where they had left him, knocked out, but alive. The vitals monitor integrated into his hood read forty-five beats per minute. _Forty-five beats more than this animal deserves._ He lined up the shot and removed the safety. It would end now.

The gun went off with a sharp bang, but all the bullet hit was the picture of the jabberwocky. The pistol skittered across the floor, bounced off the wall separating both cells and finally came to a stop at the foot of the stairs. The shuriken was still stuck inside it when Robin lunged forward, smashing him against the wall.

“He’s not worth it, Jason!”

“Field names, _replacement_!” He pushed back hard and sent both of them crashing into one of the cells. He tried to reach for his second gun, but Robin had already anticipated that move and wrenched his arm to the side. Normally, it would have been an easy hold to get out of, except that the space they were trapped in would have been tiny even just for one person. With both of their bulky physiques stuck in the small room, he could barely move. Robin, packing a few pounds less, decided to use his advantage by flipping their positions so Jason was at the back of the cell.

“He’s not worth it, Red.” Within a second, Robin had his other arm wrenched behind his back. “You’re not helping anyone by shooting him.”

“Really?” That almost made him chuckle. “I think Alice will sleep better tonight knowing that he’s dead.”

“You think?” Robin greeted his renewed attempt to break free with even more pressure and the pain that shot through his shoulders forced a short hiss from his mouth. Robin’s hold softened immediately. When he finally spoke again, whatever anger had been in his voice was gone. “Do you sleep better at night knowing that Joker’s dead?”

He wanted to shout ‘yes’ at him, but the word stuck in his throat. Did he? Did he really? His mind backtracked to the last couple of nights. There had been a crowbar, a branding iron, a toolbox, tiles everywhere, sulfuric acid, absinth, cold water and hot electricity, Batman and Robin who assaulted him, Batgirl and Nightwing who ignored him, and, oh yes, a bleached clown.

 _Deny it all you want_ , not-Robin admitted sadly, _but you haven’t slept well since May 21 st, 2011._

 _And nothing you could ever do about it is ever going to change that_ , the Arkham Knight added with an amused growl.

_Told you you’d be mine forever..._

He could still feel his thin, bleached fingers crawling through his hair, down his marred cheek and over his battered shoulders all along every scar on his body. He could still smell his breath just behind his ear. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the blood-red grin below a pair of green eyes. He could still hear him laughing and laughing and laughing—

“Jason!” That wasn’t Joker’s voice, but that was about all he could say about it with any confidence. He couldn’t put a name to it, couldn’t even tell where it came from as it filled the confines of his blood-covered prison. “Oh God, Jason, I’m sorry. Jason, please, come back! Jason—“

It was the sound of a gunshot that ripped him out of the darkness. The pain speared through his chest in an instant, hot and red as it had been on his seventeenth birthday. He clutched his chest with one hand and brought the other up to bite his knuckles as he waited for the pain to ebb away and his vision to clear. When he finally found the strength to turn around again, he was face to face with Robin, looking pale as a piece of chalk against the blackness of his cowl. If the readings from his hood were right, Robin’s pulse was through the roof.

“Ja—“

“Field names.” He wasn’t sure why this was the thought that pushed itself to the forefront of his brain every time he had a hundred things to criticize or worry about, but it did. Maybe it was because of just how much agony and horror he had forced himself to endure rather than betray their identities. Maybe some fucked up part of his psyche was still trying to prove to Bruce that he could do _something_ right at least. Maybe it was just fucking Robin-conditioning at its finest. Either way, it was the only thing coming out of his mouth as he pushed past the red vest and out of the tiny cell they were stuck in.

In front of him, Tetch lay in a pool of his own blood that seemed to originate from his head. The shot had been expertly placed, going straight through his brain. Zero beats per minute on the heartbeat monitor. From the other side of the corpse, two delicate, but bloody, hands reached out to him. One of them held the shuriken, which was probably the cause of the blood judging from how sharp the edges of those things could be if you didn’t hold them right. The other was holding his gun. Alice Reed’s eyes were cold and dead as she pushed both towards him.

“That’s a really nice gun. Sorry for getting blood all over it.”


	9. True Colors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say you can only see people for who they really are when the chips are down. As far as Jason is concerned, the chips haven't been down like this in a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay in getting this chapter out. The next one should be quicker, but I'll be on vacation for two weeks soon, so sorry if I won't update too soon.
> 
> WARNING: Trigger warning here for references to underage prostitution. Nothing graphic, but still, very unpleasant topic.

They didn’t speak a word as they escorted her up the stairs and back to the other girl, Tess. They didn’t speak a word as Jason waited by the forge while Robin perched in the tree line, observing from a safe distance. They didn’t speak a word as the police arrived.

He waited until the officers were leading the girls to the cars, before grappling back into the trees and making his way towards the relative safety of the mainland suburbs. He didn’t want to be anywhere near that place when they found Tetch.

Robin caught up with him halfway between the edge of the city and the thick, black waters separating the mainland from Central Gotham. Jason wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t trying to run. At least he thought he wasn’t. Sometimes it was hard to tell. He finally settled for one of the GC comms towers as his temporary perch. It was as good a recon position as any, even though his cursory scan of his surroundings was hampered by the heavy snowfall. Only one thing stood out like a sore thumb. A little further northwest from the suburbs, Wayne Manor was looming in the distance, glowing warm and glaring cold all at once.

Robin landed with a soft thud, kicked the snow off the ledge three feet to Jason’s left and sat down with a heavy sigh.

They didn’t speak a word, but they didn’t have to.

He could see it in the way the lines of Robin’s face twitched ever so slightly, in the hitching of breath in his chest. The gears in Robin’s head were turning, undoubtedly trying to figure out the most diplomatic, non-triggering way to tell Red Hood that he had screwed up. The thought nearly made Jason chuckle. He wasn’t sure a way like that existed. His fucking triggers had tripwires booby-trapped with hidden switches. His whole psyche was a mine field and even Jason himself felt half-blind trying to navigate it.

“Red, about what happened down there—“

“I know, I know.” He wasn’t entirely sure why his brain had to decide that this precise moment was a good time to clean the blood of his gun, but his hands moved automatically and Robin’s gaze followed them wearily. “We do not kill. What was I thinking?! You are disappointed. Maybe B is right after—“

“God, NO!” The snowball impacted against the helmet with an almost comical thud. Wiping the thick snow from his hood, Jason glared back at his replacement with the angriest scowl he could muster, hoping in vain that the stare registered despite the helmet. It was an exercise in futility. Robin stared right back at him with greenish-blue eyes. “He is NOT right and I am NOT disappointed. Not with you at least.”

And just like that, the anger was gone from his face. Jason watched stuck between suspicion and morbid curiosity as Robin looked away immediately, drawing his legs up towards his chest until he could wrap his arms around them. He looked almost vulnerable and somewhere in the deepest depths of his gut, Jason felt a stab of guilt that he couldn’t quite explain, much less decide what to do with. In the end, he went back to cleaning his gun.

According to the clock integrated into his tactical display, they had spent a total of eight minutes quietly ignoring each other when Robin finally spoke again.

“The place Joker locked you up in… it was underground, wasn’t it?”

His fingers froze over the trigger. _What the ever-loving fuck?_ All the fucking things that had just happened and he just had to go back _that_ place? If Robin hadn’t looked like he felt about two inches high, he would have punched him right in the cowl.

“I did everything wrong tonight, Red, and I am truly sorry for that. I should have anticipated that Tetch’s captives would react that way. I should have realized that boxing you in, in an underground prison of all places, would be a horrible idea. Your blood pressure spiked through the roof when we found that trap door. I should have known. I’m sorry.”

“Save your pity and your guilt trip for someone who cares.” If the replacement was expecting an apology, he was in for a disappointment. _Would have… could have… should have…_ The past was a horrible place to linger in. A hypothetical past was even worse.

“I’m not apologizing because I want your pity. Or your forgiveness for that matter.”

Jason couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at that. By all rights, it should have been a scolding. The wording certainly fit. The tone did not. If anything at all, Robin sounded… concerned? That didn’t compute and the strange mismatch of action and intent made him both weary and frustrated at the same time. Bruce’s disappointment and anger he could deal with. He was expecting it, was prepared for it, same as Dick’s hopeless optimism. But this?

“I’m apologizing because I want you to understand that I didn’t mean to make _you_ feel any worse than you already do,” Robin finally continued. “There’s nothing in it for me, because it’s not about me. It’s about you. I’d like to think that knowing I didn’t willingly drag your mind back into hell would make you feel slightly better.”

It did. Not by much, but somehow it did. It was nice to know that there was at least one person in this city – four if he counted Barb, Dick and Lucius – who did not want to jail or murder him. Five, maybe, if there was a god and Alfred was still alive and not Team Batman. _Alfred…_ He didn’t even want to think about talking to Alfred. Finding Ghost had been hard enough. Finding whatever alias Bruce and Alfred were living under now would be even harder. Contacting him without the Bat bursting in and ruining it all? Impossible. And even if he did, how could he possibly even look him in the eye, after all the things he had done, all the mistakes he had made?

The hood opened with a quick swish, followed by the sudden and sharp sting of cold winter air. He retrieved a cigarette from one of the pockets on the inside of his jacket and lit it with one hand, the other curled around a ball of fresh snow. To his left, Robin took the hint and turned his head again, staring into the distance at nothing in particular. On his cheek, the half-healed cut stood out glaringly, now that the snowfall had slowed down again. The more Jason looked at it, the more the injury puzzled him. Somehow, it looked both clean like a knife wound and fuzzy like a burn at once.

“So, what happened to your cheek?”

“Unfinished laser trap.”

“Laser trap? Seriously?” Had he missed something? As far as he was aware, Robin had been single-mindedly focused on finding Alice, minus the occasional interruption for a crime in progress. “Who the fuck uses laser traps in Gotham? Outside of military installations and multi-million dollar corporations? And what do you mean unfinished?”

Next to him, Robin took a deep sigh. “I was looking for Tetch, when I saw someone his height and stature in an old, condemned textile factory on Tanner’s Road. Went in through the roof and immediately ended up with an industrial strength laser ping-ponging all around me. Turns out someone had lined all the walls with mirrors. Took me a minute to find the damn source and shut it down with an explosive-gel-coated shuriken.”

“And your perp?”

“There was no perp.” There was a long pause and suddenly, it was as if every line in his face had sunk by a good inch, the color drained and washed right out of his skin. When Robin finally spoke again, his voice was heavy with guilt. “He was just a kid, Red. Maybe fourteen or fifteen. Looked like he hadn’t seen a hot meal or a warm bed in weeks. He’d probably just busted into the place to escape from the cold, to get warm.”

Jason doubted that. A warehouse, an abandoned factory was too big for one kid too defend, too tempting for others to break into. If the boy looked like he hadn’t eaten anything proper for weeks, then surely he had learned that lesson already. No Gotham street kid with half a working brain would risk it. No, this kid had not been there by accident.

“Tanner’s Road you said?”

“Tanner’s Road.”

It was right along the stretch he had been patrolling for the last couple of days, waiting for a chance, an opportunity, or even just a hint of why homeless kids were disappearing in that specific neighborhood one by one. It was also the mainland’s Park Row and that didn’t make the job any easier. There was of course a much, much faster way to solve the mystery, but just the thought had his insides curling into an icy ball. He had worked so hard to get away from all of this…

“Well…” With a deep sigh, Robin got up and shook out his legs. “Now that Tetch is taken care of, I guess I know what my next priority case will be.”

***

In the end, ‘priority’ was the understatement of the year.

He had expected Robin to focus his patrols on the mainland, which was just as well. Jason preferred patrolling the islands. As hopelessly romantic as it sounded, there was a certain sense of danger mingled with freedom to being surrounded by the dark waves of Gotham Bay. Life – and crime – on the mainland was too steady, too single-minded, whereas the islands were constantly shifting and changing. It kept him on his toes. More importantly, it kept him from lingering too much in any of the thousands of dark corners of his mind.

He had also expected to find Robin’s casefile on the disappearing children expand exponentially with each day that passed. Tim may have had the superficial, spoiled-rich jock act down to a T when he wanted to, but when he was on the job, he was no less relentless and meticulous than Dick or Barbara or even Bruce.

What he had not expected was to receive a call from Oracle, on his private phone, in the middle of the morning.

The days when he would have woken slowly, with the sound of the alarm creeping subtly into his dreams until it dragged his mind back into consciousness through a haze of grey were long-since gone. Nowadays, his awakenings were swift and hit with the force of an eighteen-wheeler. Even so, he gave himself a second or two to frown at the display of his phone before picking up.

_Dec. 9th, 10:49 am. Fucking hell._

“Alright. Who died?”

“Good morning to you, too,” Barbara growled back through the line. “I’m sorry for calling you so early—“

“Well, you’d better be, because it’s not even been three hours since—“

“—but I wanted to talk to you before Tim got up.”

Whatever insult his brain had been ready to throw at her froze on his tongue. “Wait, what?” Since when did Barb keep secrets from _Tim, her husband,_ of all people? The mere idea sent off every little alarm bell in his head. “I always thought marriage was about trust and honesty and all that for-better-or-for-worse crap.”

“And I wouldn’t be going behind his back if I wasn’t one-hundred percent sure that it is necessary.” If the heavy sigh on the other end of the line was anything to go by, Barbara was just as tired and agitated as he was. That in and of itself was a bad sign. Barbara was an early bird, even more so than Tim. Somehow, she and Bruce both belonged to that weird sub-species of homo sapiens that managed to roll out of bed with nothing but three hours of sleep and two cups of hot coffee and still act like nothing was wrong at all. To sound so beaten… she must have missed out on at least a couple of nights of good sleep.

“I don’t know all the details of what happened in that forge,” Babs eventually continued, “but he hasn’t been himself ever since. He’s been working himself beyond exhaustion, he’s barely eating, much less sleeping and most importantly, he’s _not talking_.”

“Newsflash, Babs,” he switched the phone to hands-free and went to put on is exercise clothes, barely scowling at the torn up bed sheets. There was no way he was going back to sleep anyway. “Not everyone is a Dick. Some of us actually like silence.”

“It’s not funny, Jason. Really, it’s not.” The sound that followed her words nearly had him swallow the cigarette he had just lit. It was a pathetic little thing, somewhere between a sniffle and a sigh and it was _not_ like any sound he had ever heard out of Batgirl or Barbara or Oracle for that matter. It made him feel about two inches high.

“Babs… are you… crying?”

“No!” There was a petulant, almost childish edge to the steel in her voice, but no tears. “No I’m not, although I wish I was. Might actually help.” There was the clacking sound of a keyboard, followed by the loud howl of a hungry cat. The indignant little cry almost brought a smile to his face, except he knew what it meant. Someone had forgotten to feed the kitty. Tim and Barb never forgot to feed their cats. “Look, when we get together at the Clock Tower tonight for the holiday contingency plan… just be there early, ok? I want you to seem him waltz through that door unawares before he has a chance to put on the mask. If you still think I’m overreacting then, I promise I won’t hassle you anymore. Ok?”

Jason sighed. What choice did he have? He already owed Barb way too much. “I’ll be there early. I promise.”

***

He arrived at the tower exactly ten minutes before seven, dropping through the upgraded access hatch quiet as a shadow. His first action upon landing was a quick glance around the room, a near-instinctive habit that had been drilled into him at an early age and would probably stick with him for the rest of his life. The first thing he noticed was that he was alone and all security systems were in perfect order. The second was that there was a note on the fridge inviting him to take anything he wanted. He wasn’t surprised when he saw that everything in the fridge was entirely fresh and still in its original untouched, unopened packaging. He had to give credit where credit was due.

In contrast to Bruce, the rest of his dysfunctional adoptive family at least had the capacity to learn from their mistakes.

Two minutes before seven, the hatch slid open once more. He had the guns out in an instant, even though he knew the silent swish meant that whoever was dropping in had been recognized by the biometric scanners. Still, it was Gotham. Once could never be careful enough.

If Dick was upset at finding himself at the wrong end of a barrel first thing into his visit, he wasn’t showing it. Instead, he simply got up from his perfect-ten landing with that disgusting million-watts smile that instantly made most people melt into a puddle at his feet and gave a quick nod. “Good morning, Red.”

“I take it you also got a call from Barb?” The guns slid back into their original position with practiced ease. So did Dick’s smile.

“Sure did. I can count the times I’ve heard her that worn down on one hand.” As always, Dick Grayson was in perpetual motion. Jason doubted the word ‘still’ existed in his vocabulary and he watched on quietly as Nightwing made a beeline straight for the coffee machine. Some bats lived off blood. Others lived off caffeine. He was just about mentally ready and braced for the game of a-hundred-questions he’d surely have to endure between now and Babs showing up when the elevator arrived with a loud rattle. He caught Dick’s quick hiss as he burned his lips on the overly hot, fresh coffee and couldn’t even really blame him.

For just about two seconds, Tim looked like hell. The circles around his eyes were too dark, the rest of his skin too pale to be healthy. If his hair had been longer, it would have stuck up in cold sweat. Every single fiber of muscle seemed to scream exhaustion. Most of all, whatever his eyes were focusing on must have been a thousand-yards away. At least for two seconds. At least until he caught sight of the two of them.

It was frightening to see just how well Bruce had trained each and every one of them to slide effortlessly into their masks, to pretend that they were something they were not, to play their roles. The domino mask attached to Robin’s face with one quick flick of the hand and suddenly it was as if Tim Drake had never entered the room. Gone was the exhaustion, the fatigue, the worry, the pain. There was no more Tim Drake, only Robin. And Robin was not supposed to be exhausted, fatigued, worried or in pain. Robin was supposed to be the chirpy little sidekick, always quick of feet and quick of wit, yet never over-shadowing the big bad bat.

It was moments like these when Jason really wanted to punch Bruce into the dirt, to grab him by his suit, throw him to the ground and then just hit him, fist upon fist upon fist upon fist upon fist upon fist until that set-in-stone face was broken and bleeding and torn apart.

Did he even know what he had done to them? To _all_ of them? Was he even aware? Did he care? Was he even the slightest bit sorry?

He shot a quick glance at Dick as Tim went to put on the remainder of his gear that he had not been able to hide under civvies on his way from the Manor to the Tower – the cape, the shin guards, the gauntlets) and felt strangely relieved to find the same quiet fury reflected in Nightwing’s azure eyes.

Perhaps he wasn’t as paranoid as he had feared.

***

The briefing was quick, Robin’s exit even quicker. There was no question where he was going. The file concerning the disappearance of homeless kids on the mainland was the only one he had touched in days. He stood by Oracle’s left while Nightwing waited to her right as she brought up the relevant files.

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

“Not a single witness statement,” Jason growled through his helmet. This was sloppy work. Everything else was spotless. The crime scenes had been expertly analyzed, particularly the textile factory, the missing persons database was as complete as any street rat’s file could possibly be. But there were no witness statements. Not a single one.

“Red, I know I’m asking a lot,” Barbara finally ventured as she closed the casefile and brought up her own research databases once more. There were still dozens of unsolved cases and it was clear who was doing the lion’s share of the work here. “But just what exactly happened in that forge?”

Where was he even supposed to start? More importantly, how was he going to put this without having it evolve into a thousand questions and accusations regarding his own actions that night?

 _Get over yourself_ , not-Robin lamented in the depths of his brain. _If Tim can be honest to_ you _for_ your _sake, then_ you _can be honest to_ them _for_ his _sake._

And in the end, wasn’t that all Oracle wanted of him? An honest answer?

_Don’t be a Bruce, Jason..._

“Tetch kept his hostages in a little basement he’d converted into two tiny prison cells. Robin went in first to retrieve them and knocked out Tetch, but the girls freaked out.”

“Understandable,” Nightwing added without a hint of anger to his voice. “Last time they saw Robin, he handed them over to Tetch on a silver platter.”

“We took them out of there. One of them... Tess... Let’s just say Stockholme Syndrome is too clinical a word to describe what was going on in her brain.” It really was. Just like PTSD. A nice, clean, rational description for something that was anything but. There was nothing clean or rational or even remotely nice about what trauma like that did to a person. He _knew_. “I went back to shoot the son of a bitch and, no, I don’t regret it. He tried to stop me, knocked the gun straight out of my hand. While we were busy, Alice – and yeah, that’s her actual freaking name – took my gun and shot Tetch. Only thing she apologized for was getting blood on the grip.”

“Jesus Christ...” Of course, Dick did what he always did when he was emotional. Pacing and pacing and pacing, hands running through his hair, deep breaths moving in and out of his lungs. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph... No wonder he’s staying away from the kids.”

“He’s afraid he’ll get another potential victim into danger. Or worse.” Barbara’s brow knitted into a tight frown. “He’s trying to get this done with zero civilian involvement.”

“He’s an idiot.” If looks could kill, Barbara and Dick would have murdered him ten times over. Jason simply shrugged his shoulders. “What else would you call somebody who foregoes the obvious route with the highest chance of success because of one setback?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Barb’s voice was dripping poison. “What would you call someone who is being a complete jerk to the people who have been nothing but supportive to him?”

“Whoa, timeout! Timeout, both of you!” Dick was between them in a second, hands held up in an instinctive, defensive reaction. _Just like a bossy brat_ , Jason thought.

 _Or a concerned big brother_ , Robin retorted.

“Barb,” Dick’s voice was surprisingly firm and uncompromising, but there was not a hint of anger in his bright blue eyes. “Take a deep breath and think, please. You know Jason didn’t mean it like that. You know you’re just as sleep-deprived as Tim is, and it is not helping. Calm down. Please. And Jason,” his hands remained where they were, but his gaze switched immediately. If it was even humanly possible, Dick looked even more empathetic than before. “You know Barb didn’t mean it like that. This isn’t easy for any of us, and it shouldn’t be. And that’s ok. It really is. Just... let’s not turn this into a shouting match. Alright?”

Jason blinked, then scoffed. “What’s the matter, Dick? Did’ya use your break from BPD to go to BU and take classes in psychology?”

“No, actually, that was Tim’s approach.” Under the cowl, Nightwing’s lips curled into the tiniest of sad smiles. “He signed up for GCU’s classes on PTSD pretty much as soon as he found out that you were still alive.”

 _He did what?_ He could practically feel his brain grind to a halt at that. It did make a certain kind of sense. It certainly explained why Tim had so far been the most successful at navigating the warzone that was Jason’s daily struggle to recover from all the damage Bruce and the Joker had inflicted on him. Still, his brain refused to accept it as truth. Why would he put himself through all that trouble? Why would anyone?

“You probably don’t know,” Dick eventually continued, “but you were his idol. We both were. We were the reason he wanted to become Robin, so I suggest we pay him back now and help him out here, okay? Our brother needs us.”

 _Our brother..._ The words tasted strange on Jason’s tongue. They _were_ brothers by law if not by blood, but the idea still felt entirely alien to him. He had spent the first fourteen years of his life without anyone who would even remotely resemble a sibling. When Barbara and Dick had first entered into his life, it had left him nothing short of confused. He hadn’t needed, hadn’t want anyone intruding on the stable – he had refused to call it happy – little world he had built for himself, because in the end, what was it worth? They would eventually disappoint and leave each other. That’s how it always had been and always would be.

And yet, somehow, despite everything that had happened, despite Joker, despite the Arkham Knight, they were all still here.

 _Look, I’m as new to this entire holy-crap-I-have-a-brother-business as you are_ , Dick had chimed at him when he had dragged Jason upstairs, out of the cave and to the living room with the widescreen TV for a cheap movie session following their first training exercise, _but some things in life are worth giving it a shot, even if you think it’s an absolutely terrible idea. How else are you gonna convince yourself to jump off a twenty-floors building with nothing but a cape and a grappling hook?_

“I’m leaving.” It was a simple statement and one that didn’t leave any room for interpretation or argumentation. “I’ll be off comms for the next couple of days, but I’ll keep the tracker.” His hand was already curled around the grapnel gun when he looked back to where Dick and Barbara were staring at him in sheer disbelief. “Look after Central for me. I know Bats is patrolling, but there’s a lot of ground to cover.”

“And what exactly are you up to?” Dick didn’t sound furious. He didn’t even sound disappointed. If anything at all, he sounded hurt.

“I’ll do what I always do,” Jason replied as he stretched out his arm to aim for the hatch. “I’ll cross the lines you won’t.”

***

_Fuck winter. Fuck winter up its cold, hard ass. Fuck snow. Fuck ice, the fucking bitch._

Most importantly, fuck his own bleeding heart for dragging him into this. Jason cursed under his breath as he warmed his stiff hands over a faltering trash can fire. The gloves were thin and full of holes and didn’t keep out nearly enough of the chill. Neither did the old, worn and torn trench coat, nor the holey, beaten sneakers or the thin shirt and jeans he was wearing. The wind howled through every inch of fabric and the snow stuck to the parts of his hair that the under-sized hat didn’t cover in cold, wet lumps. Worst of all, the cold seeped into his bones, dragging up memories of a tiny little cell and ice cold water, of winters in apartments with broken heaters (or no heaters) and under bridges. Bridges like the one right here, at the crossing of Fourth and Abbington. He retrieved the sad excuse of a cigarette he had rolled from the page of a discarded newspaper and some of the cheapest, horse-shit tasting tobacco he had ever nicked off any street kid and lit it on the fire. God, he had forgotten how much he hated smoking ink.

The first one to arrive was Raffaella, or Raffi, as most of the other kids called her. Her black curls were nearly white from all the snow as she ducked underneath the arch of the old steel bridge and approached his fire with hesitant steps. Raffi was a smart one. She was always first, but she was also always cautious. Clever head on her nine-, maybe ten-year-old shoulders. She might just make it. He offered her the cig and watched her take a deep drag that didn’t seem to affect her in the slightest.

Next were Tonio and Gloria. The Mexican Twins, was what they were usually known as. Tonio had new bruises on his arms and he was favoring his left leg just a little. Jason could tell, even though the boy was good at hiding it. Gloria looked at him warily, but with the same resigned look he had seen in so many young girls on the street, even back in his days. He hoped they charged triple. Once for being underage. Once for being twins.

Noemi, Dominik and Brennan arrived late, as always. Only by a few minutes, but on the street, a few minutes could easily be the difference between life and death. He made sure to shoot them a glare that communicated just how badly screwed they could easily have been and Dominik even jumped back a little. He hadn’t been on the streets for long and was not used to the rough life yet. Jason hoped he had been able to teach the kid some lessons.

Of course, the first lesson all of them had learned was that you do not mess with Pete. Don’t you dare to fucking mess with Pete or he will mess you up good. Patrick and Big Mike had been the first to try to steal his meager possessions from him, not even twelve hours after he had hit the streets. He had left Big Mike in a crying heap of hundred-eighty pounds of muscle, but had willingly shared his candy bar with ninety-pound Patrick, who had not had a meal in a few days. Word had spread fast. You don’t fucking mess with Pete, but if you are just a kid, if you need someone to give you just a morsel of food, or to get one of the big guys off your back, or to let you stay by a warm fire for a few minutes, you came to Pete. His reputation had been firmly cemented when he had tracked down the scumbag who had cheaped out on Gloria after he had promised to pay her extra to have her brother take his place. At gunpoint of course.

Well, Pete was not scared of any fucking gun, nor the sons of bitches wielding them. Pete wasn’t scared of anyone or anything. Pete was a fucking badass, with scary scars and cold, dead eyes who could break every bone in your body and laugh while he did it. You don’t fucking mess with Pete. Or his kids. And so, after only a week, he now had a group of kids dropping by his little hideout under the bridge every night, to warm their hands for a few minutes and get a chilidog and a bit of thin, hot tea. On rare occasions, he would even have a candy bar or two to split between them. He handed out today’s spoils without a word and then began to make his usual round.

He started with Gloria and Tonio, as always, taking them aside one after the other to ask them where they had been hurt and what they needed. He explained the disinfectant and bandages away by saying that he had been a pharmacist before he had ended up on the street and that he just knew where to get stuff. Pete was good at getting stuff, and no one looked a gift horse in the mouth. Certainly not Gloria and Tonio. They were happy as long as he didn’t insist on shoving anything into them, whether it be part of his body or not, and he never did.

Noemi was next. Noemi was a talker, much like Dick, which made speaking to her only more painful. Wide-eyed optimist, with the same running mouth and azure eyes. Only Noemi never talked about happy things. Noemi talked about how she no longer got any money from begging, how they told her to start ‘earning’ her money instead, how she was scared and cold and hungry and how she tried to offer to the guy who always came down Tanner’s looking for a good time with a blonde, but even he thought she was too young and now she didn’t know where she would get tomorrow’s breakfast from. Pete hugged her close, brushed a hand through her golden hair and slipped a lock pick into her pocket before sending her back to the others.

Raffi and Brennan were silent as always, talking no more and no less than was absolutely necessary, but at least they were not scared. Dominik on the other hand couldn’t even look straight at Pete’s face for two seconds without turning away in fear. He grabbed his chin hard in one hand and made him look, explaining to him in very clear words that this would not be the worst thing he’d be seeing on the street. Then he hugged him once more and slipped him a small chocolate cookie he had nicked from some street vendor down Fifth. For the first time ever, Dominik smiled at him.

By the time his rounds were done, the chilidogs were gone. Eat fast, think faster. It was an essential lesson that each street kid learned sooner or later. He counted heads once more and steeled himself for what might just break this shaky little network he had established.

“So, where’d you guys leave Pat?”

The silence that followed his question seemed to stretch on for an eternity, but that was just the cold talking. He knew. Except for Raffi, everyone had their heads buried firmly in their tin cups of tea. “Raffaella, do you know where Pat is?”

“He went to see Checkers.”

“Raffi, stop!” Dominik looked just about ready to piss his pants. “Do you want him to come after us next?”

“Ain’t nobody coming after you while I’m here,” Pete assured him, as he stood up to full height and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “What does Checkers want from you, guys? Hands or legs?”

Gloria and Tonio buried their noses even deeper in their tea, if that was even humanly possible. It had been legs for them. Always legs. For Raffi, it was hands. She was a good little thief. He wasn’t exactly sure where Brennan and Dominik stood yet.

“Fours.” Noemi’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “He wants all fours.”

 _Crawlers..._ Dread settled in his gut like cold soot in an old fireplace. He had suspected it, but had been hoping to the last that it wasn’t true. “I hope I don’t have to explain to any of you why that is a very, very fucking stupid idea.”

“No, sir,” Noemi murmured through her chattering teeth. “But at least it’s not legs.”

Whoever Checkers was, he wanted to murder the bastard. He wanted to murder all the bastards who thought it was a good idea to take advantage of Gotham’s most innocent and helpless. But first off, Checkers. “Can you take me to him, Noemi?”

That, apparently, was a step too far for the poor thing. He watched her drop the tin can and disappear off into the night before anyone could stop her. Not that anyone would have tried.

“Thank you for the tea and the food and the bandages, Pete,” Gloria handed her cup back to him with a quick nod. “But it’s getting late. Tonio and I have work to do.”

His insides boiled at the thought of what exactly that work entailed, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. Not right now. Maybe never. At the end of the day, the sad truth was that you couldn’t save everyone. Not even if you were the Batman himself. Or Pete. The Red Hood.

“I gotta go, too.” Dominik nearly fell over his own feet as he scrambled away. Brennan didn’t speak a word as he handed back his cup and left. The boy was a silent sufferer, alright. From across the dying garbage fire, Raffi looked at him with cold, hard eyes.

“What do you care about Checkers? He says he only needs kids for his job.”

“It’s a crappy job, with a really awful health plan,” Pete replied and for once Raffaela was actually snickering. It was the happiest sound he had ever heard out of the girl and that alone made him feel a little better. “I just need his name. Or his location. Or even just his description so I can find the fucker myself.”

Raffi looked around carefully, chewing on her bottom lip. “What’s in it for me?”

“You get to meet Robin.”

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Then, as if someone had pulled back all the winter clouds to make way for a star-spangled sky, her eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “You’re lying! You can’t just call for Robin.”

“Sure can.” He did his best impression of an indignant pout. “Bet you my last chilidog that I can.”

“Done.”

They quelled the fire before setting out. It wasn’t far to the factory from the bridge, but in this part of town, one could never be too careful, even if only for four blocks. They slipped through the shadows of shifty alleys and forgotten pathways, up and down rusty fire escapes that Raffi knew almost as well as he did. She also knew enough to stop when she saw the warehouse.

“Why would Robin be in there?”

She was ready to bail. With a deep sigh, Pete knelt down to be at eye level with her. His ankle hurt like a bitch, but he had to make this work. “Because Checkers had some of the other kids build a trap for him in there. Do you remember Tommy?” Raffaela nodded with a graveness that no child should ever have. “Well, Tommy was still in there, building the trap, when Robin came in. Robin couldn’t save him and now he’s combing over the place inch by inch because he won’t rest until he’s found Checkers and made him pay. Do you wanna help Robin kick Checkers’ ass?”

The fierce nod she gave him was the best thing he had seen all week. With few quick strides, Pete crossed the road to the warehouse. The door to the fire exit came apart with one swift kick and a loud bang. _Not loud enough to cover the click of the grapnel gun though_. “Hey, Robin, don’t be shy! We just wanna talk.”

For a few seconds, nothing happened. Raffi looked at him as if she were ready to call him a liar and tear him a new one and for a moment he was sure that it would all have been for nothing. Then, silent as a moth, a flash of red dropped down from the rafters.

He had landed in the middle of the room, like some strange meteorite from outer space that really didn’t belong there, looking completely out of place. The cape flapped slightly with the gust of cold air that streamed through the now open door into the hall. He did look kind of heroic, standing there against a backdrop of streetlights shining behind the factory.

_Begin squeeing in three, two, one—_

“Robin!!!!”

Raffi rushed at him like a thunderbolt and was clinging to his cape within less than ten seconds. For once, Tim seemed completely at a loss for words, much less actions. Jason grinned under his battered hat as he watched him trying to come to terms with the ninety pounds of energy that were clutching at his costume, marveling at everything from his boots to his cowl.

“This is so cool, so cool, so very cool! Thank you, Pete!” She spared him only a second, but it was enough to see her grin stretched wide across her face. Maybe Don Bluth had been right. No matter how much trauma you heaved upon kids, they would be alright so long as they got a happy ending. “I never thought I’d get to see you for real,” Raffi continued, looking up at the still very much baffled Boy Wonder. “Can you really fly? Can I fly?”

“Only if you tell Robin what you know about Checkers,” Jason reminded her as he closed the distance between them. “That’s why we’re here, right, Raffi?”

“Right!” She tucked at his cape then, until he finally knelt down, and whispered something into his ear. For a moment, Jason wished he had his own gear to amplify the sound, but unless Timbers was really, really pissed at him, he would tell him soon enough anyway.

“Alright... Raffi, is it?” At last, Robin seemed to have regained his voice. The girl clinging to his cape nodded fiercely. “Here’s the deal...” He leaned in closer and whispered just loud enough for Jason to hear. “I can’t really fly, but neither can Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood or any of the other suckers. But I can glide. You wanna glide for a bit?”

The answer was ‘yes’, of course. Jason took a walk down the street, stopping by the next-best coffee shop for a quick cup of black goodness before making his way up the fire escape of the recently abandoned dwelling by the local church. His tracker was humming quietly against his collar. Sure enough, ten minutes later Robin had found him.

“So, where did you drop off your youngest, most adorable fan?”

“Bridge by Fourth and Abbington. She says that’s where Pete lives.”

“Not anymore, thank god!” He flicked the empty cup off the building. “If I have to spend one more night out in this cold in these rags, I’m gonna go insane.”

He had been expecting a lot of things. Eye-rolling, chiding, arguing and a lot worse. What he hadn’t expected was for Robin to remove his cape and drape it over Jason’s shoulders.

“You didn’t have to do this to yourself, Jason. Not for me.”

“Who says I’m doing it for you? Barb was desperate enough to call both Dickwing and me in to haul your ass back to sanity. You think I’ll let him steal my thunder?”

Robin, Tim, laughed. After all the crap that happened over the last two weeks, hell, the last two months, after how haggard and fatigued and disheveled he had looked until a couple of minutes ago, it was the sweetest sound in the universe. Against his better judgment, Jason curled into the cloak. It smelled of Kevlar, sweat and Gotham – a familiar scent that had once meant the world to him. Part of him wanted to hold on to that cheap piece of black and yellow forever. He retrieved the last of his shitty cigarettes and lit it with the lighter he had hidden in an inside pocket of his coat.

“So, what did Raffi tell you? Who’s Checkers?”

“Some guy who dresses like someone challenged him to make a suit out of five-by-five-inch patches of fabric with no patch having the same color as the ones next to it. Ugly colors, too. Wears a funky helmet with bright lights on it—“

“Are you for real?” He nearly bit his cig in half. “Crazy Quilt?! That’s who’s been building this fucking death trap for you? Who is still building a death trap for you? Fucking Crazy Quilt?!!”

“Who’s Crazy Quilt?”

“A lunatic with a really, really bad fashion sense and an even worse track record.” Jason didn’t even bother to turn around. He had been expecting Nightwing to join the reunion sooner or later. Surprised he was not. “Guy normally fails extra-hard at every crime he tries. I’m surprised he got this set up this time.”

“By exploiting a bunch of homeless kids,” Jason bit back, before sending his cig the same way as his coffee and standing up to join the other two. Robin looked at him with a fierceness and clarity he hadn’t shown in days.

“Right... That girl, Raffi, she said something about ‘Crawlers’?”

Oh, how he wished he still had the cig. With a quick sigh, Jason drew the cape a little tighter. “When you’re a kid on the streets of Gotham, there are only about three things you can do to survive: gang membership, thievery or prostitution. Crawlers are... a special kind of thieves. Short story, some big guy pays a small kid to crawl through some ducts and vents to bypass security.” Dick’s face fell and warped into sheer horror. “It’s a horrible idea of course,” Jason continued. “I mean... aside from the fact that most vents aren’t even big enough for that, you’ve got fans with razor-sharp rotor blades, broken panels, sharp edges, deep drops, rats and probably a few more living things you don’t want to think about. Crawlers don’t usually live very long.”

“That is absolutely disgusting and terrible.” Dick looked like he was ready to punch someone. Good. With a little bit of luck, they could get this done tonight, then and Checkers would be eating through a straw for the next couple of months.

“Well, you were the one who initially blinded Crazy Quilt, right?”

“By accident,” Dick quickly added. “I never meant to—“

“Of course, you didn’t.” Jason rolled his eyes before handing the cape back to Robin. The night air was instantly biting cold against his flimsy clothes, but he gritted his teeth against the pain. “He really had it in for Robin after that, though. Fucker hypnotized and nearly killed me on my first day on the job.”

“Yeah, and you blinded him and smashed his helmet to boot.”

“So what this is a competition now?” Robin glanced back and forth between them as if they were two little kids fighting over some fancy toy before throwing his hands up in desperation and contacting Oracle through his cowl. Jason reached for the spare communicator earpiece he had hidden in his scarf and tuned into the frequency. “Barb, please tell me you’ve got a location on this crazy jerk.”

“Paul Dekker, has a laundromat business registered at 2140 Woodland Avenue. Sending coordinates to your cowl.”

“Thanks, Barb. And I’m sorry for all the trouble I put you guys through.” Robin rolled his shoulders quickly before strapping the cape back on. He mustered Jason from head to toe quickly. “You got an emergency cache nearby this place?”

Jason scoffed at that. “Robin... I have an emergency cache near everywhere.”


	10. The Poison Of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason is ready for the mayhem that is usually Christmas in Gotham. They all are.  
> Only this year, Christmas comes early.

If dressing up in dirty, old, worn clothes and going back to the streets had been a blast from the past, then the laundromat was a punch. Jason scowled underneath the hood as he and Robin entered the manager’s office. Compared to the neutral whites and blues of the laundry room, the office with its candy-colored patchwork madness was downright painful to the eyes. He remembered waking up to roughly the same blinding array of colors at the end of his first night as Robin, with no recollection of how he had gotten there. Back then, Paul Dekker, Crazy Quilt, had been ready and waiting for him.

This time, the joke was on him.

Robin moved in without hesitation, planting his fist firmly in the surprised man’s stomach while dodging the laser beams coming from his helmet. In the top left corner of the room, a panel slid aside silently to reveal a neon-purple, automated turret. A quick draw and six bullets later, it was neon-purple scrap. Another three turrets popped up in the remaining corners and Jason dispatched them just as quickly. To his right, Paul Dekker desperately tried to wriggle out of the submission hold Robin was applying to him. The previously shiny, immaculate golden helmet lay crushed on the ground to his feet.

“You think that’s it?” If Crazy Quilt’s insane smile was anything to go by, he didn’t understand just how much trouble he was in. “I have the entire building booby-trapped, you are not getting out of here alive, Robin!”

“Really...” Robin shifted effortlessly into a one-armed hold, then brought his left hand up to his cowl comms unit. “Are your traps running off the freshly installed back-up generator at the back door by any chance?”

The lights went out with a quick and low hum, leaving the three of them in full darkness. He switched to tactical vision and watched Nightwing sheath his escrima sticks and give them a thumbs up on the other side of the wall. Even though he only showed up as a skeleton on the scanner, Jason just knew that there was another one of those shit-eating grins on his face.

“So...” Jason turned back to Robin and set to cleaning one of his guns. Apparently, Tim wasn’t done yet. The cocky cheer in his voice had turned cold, warping into something more like a threatening growl. “Here’s how this is going to go: You’re already blind. I already smashed your precious head gear. We can quit now, if you save me the trouble of turning this place upside down and just tell me where you’ve been building your little death traps.”

That got him a deep, hysterical laugh in return. “You will see my masterpiece when it is finished, bird boy. Not before.”

“Have it your way.”

There was a loud crunch as Dekker’s skull connected with the nearby desk, followed by the telltale clicking and quiet humming of the remote hacking device. Jason watched in mild fascination as their target went from mildly distressed to rambling in panic. His heart rate and pulse were through the roof.

“What did you do?”

“Hacked the lenses that connect to his optical nerves,” Robin explained calmly, although if Jason wasn’t completely mistaken, there was a hint of disgust to the words, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he had just done. “I set the color calibration chips to change configurations every half second.”

“Damn...” He tried to imagine what that must possibly feel like. There had been days when he had been locked up in complete darkness, but he had soon learned that even pitch black was better than constantly flickering, shifting lights. He couldn’t picture constantly flickering, shifting colors being much more pleasant. “Congratulations, Robin.” He patted Tim on the shoulder quickly before he went to dig through the files and folders in the manager’s desk. They still had to find his latest death trap, after all, and retrieve the bodies of Patrick and whatever other poor kids had died building it for him. “You just graduated from friendly neighborhood sidekick to genuinely scary vigilante.”

With a quick shrug of his shoulders, Red Hood went back to the files. It took them all of five minutes to find the address of the trap, but more than two hours to disarm the damn thing. Jason had to give credit where credit was due: the old, abandoned paper mill had been turned from a derelict ruin into a miniature gauntlet of death. It was impossible to walk even as much as two steps in the place without hitting some hidden trip wire or pressure plate. Even worse, most of them were mechanical instead of electronic, making Robin’s cowl optics and Red Hood’s helmet practically useless, and hidden extremely well by the generally disturbing candy-color mix that was the new paint job for the building. If GCPD hadn’t ended up fishing four dead, emaciated bodies out of the various ventilation shafts and steam pipes running through the structure after Robin had given Cash the all clear, he might even have been impressed.

Instead, he simply felt exhausted. It had been a long night for all of them, and an even longer week. Spending most of it living on the street, constantly on alert, constantly cold and hungry, had not helped, but it had been a necessary sacrifice. After all, there was no faking real hunger, real desperation. He had spent enough time living on the street as a child to understand that. He had wanted, needed, those kids to trust him, instead of running from him as if he were some undercover cop. What little comfort he took from the fact that it was over, that he would be having a hot shower, proper dinner and a soft bed tonight, died the moment he thought of Raffi, Toni and Gloria, of Noemi, Brennan and Dominik, who would still be sleeping god knew where, eating things that should probably never go down someone’s throat and melting snow for bath water.

Life was a fucking unfair bitch.

What other explanation was there for the fact that some people could have it so easy, could have everything they could ever want or need placed right in their laps, while others had to fight for every glimmer of hope? It was luck, the kindly lifeguard of the idiot, as Riddler had once put it very bluntly and accurately. And as ridiculous as it seemed, even Raffi and the others had been lucky. They had been in the right place at the right time to meet Pete and get a week’s worth of free dinner and medical care. It could have been any other kid living on that street, just as it could have been anyone but Jason jacking the tires of the Batmobile all those years ago.

Perhaps, they were better off with him disappearing from their lives. Pete was Jason was Red Hood. There were a thousand ways sticking with him could go wrong and none of them were pretty. Perhaps, it was for the best.

In the end, he decided to go for the middle ground. He procured what he could while the sky was still dark, only leaving the very few things he could only get during normal business hours. Being out during the day – aside from his part-time job at Wayne Enterprises that mostly had him stuck in his little office, blissfully ignored by pretty much everyone and everything – always felt strange and wrong somehow, like no creature like him should have any business showing their face before sundown. Of course, the fact that broad daylight and civilian clothes always made him feel like a sitting duck did not help. By the time he was done, he felt ready to punch the next person to pass him by and stare at his face right in the teeth. Still, it had been worth it.

The spoils of his daily excursion were spread out before him in six little, battered backpacks, each carrying a named label fastened with a safety pin. Not that it would matter much – the contents were mostly the same. There were a few more painkillers and an additional bottle of disinfectant in Gloria’s and Tonio’s, a little more food in Raffi’s and Brennan’s and a few more lock picks in Noemi’s and Dominik’s, but all of it was bundled up nicely in donation store winter coats that looked old enough to seem legit on a street kid, but weren’t full of holes like the ones they already wore. The food was hidden at the very bottom, packaged in air-tight zipper bags to keep away the rain and the rats. He had made sure that none of it would spoil, even though he doubted the rations would last long. The money was sewn into pockets all throughout the bags, a dollar here, another there, each accompanied by the addresses of the few foundations for homeless kids that were actually worth a damn. With a little bit of luck, at least Noemi and Dominik might actually go there. With a lot of luck, at least one of the six would be out of the gutter by next Christmas. Until then, this would have to do.

He left the bags underneath the bridge, fifteen minutes before their usual rendezvous time, then grappled off into the safe shadows of a nearby rooftop. Raffi arrived first, as always, and immediately froze when she saw that there was no Pete. The comms unit of integrated his helmet beeped shortly, signaling him that Oracle wanted to speak to him, but he decided to ignore it for now. Only when Rafaella had finally racked up the courage to go for the backpack labeled with her name and had started rummaging through its contents did he turn to leave. If even Raffi took it, then so would the others.

“Merry Christmas, kiddo.”

Of course, even when paying back a good deed, karma decided to be a bitch. Oracle’s message had been about the last thing he had wanted to hear: while he had been investigating Dekker, two more women had been mutilated, left voiceless in an abandoned theater and the Emilia Wayne Opera House on the mainland. He skimmed the casefiles quickly, then went to investigate both crime scenes. As before, each victim had been left with a Dictaphone carrying their last words with a natural voice, and as before there was no unique evidence that could have led him to the bastard responsible for the crime. Even worse, whoever he or she was seemed to be getting more brazen. Emilia Wayne Opera House had only been closed down a month ago. Whoever it was – they knew what they were doing.

_They knew..._

The thought made him stop dead in his tracks. He had always imagined that the locations picked for ditching the victims had a personal significance for the perpetrator, but perhaps he had underestimated just how much significance there was. Whoever had done this had followed the artistic circuit close enough to know that this place would be abandoned. He brought up the database search he had set up long ago, filtering for patients around the Gotham area that had undergone surgery to the vocal cords over the last few years, and added a note to filter for any mentions of Emilia Wayne to his results.

By the time he returned to his safehouse miserable and tired after hours of patrolling in a blizzard, the pleasant buzz of having finally found a new lead in his case had already faded away. The weather had made his shoulders act up again and he was nearly out of smokes, but at the very least, he now had a lead. With a cigarette in his left and a cup of hot coffee in his right, Jason sat down to scour the database for possible connections.

The joy that sparked inside him when he found a match didn’t last nearly as long as the search had taken. Some part of him hoped in vain that it was just a cruel joke, but of course it wasn’t. It would have made his life too easy.

“Just my fucking luck.”

Sophia Babiloni had been a professional soprano and thirty-five years old when her injury had occurred. A quick web search soon confirmed what he had already assumed: singing had been her life. She had been studying classical music and singing arias since she was six years old and she had been good at it. Really, really good. Her resume was a long list of grand roles in pretty much anything from Rinaldo to The Phantom of the Opera, a career that had come to a tragic end when she had performed her part as Violetta Valéry in La Traviata at Emilia Wayne Opera House for a select group of high-ranking politicians, industrial magnates, assorted celebrities – _including Bruce Wayne_ , not-Robin noted sourly – and about four dozen journalists and paparazzi who had eventually hassled her to such degree, she had grabbed a champagne bottle from a passing waiter during the after-show party and smashed it over the head of the next-best camera-carrying passerby.

He wondered how many hours she had spent regretting it ever since. He wondered if she would still have done it, had she known that the only poison ink the guy with the camera had been planning spill had been supposed to go into the guests’ drinks. He wondered if she had done it had she known it was the Joker.

Two days later, Sofia Babiloni had been kidnapped from her penthouse. Another two days after that, she had been found stumbling naked along the Gotham Freeway, clutching her throat in pain. After she had written out her statement at GCPD, they had told her she was lucky to still be alive.

But what good was life when everything else was gone? What good was life when everything you had enjoyed and loved, everything that defined you, made you who you were and gave you a sense of belonging, of _purpose_ , was suddenly taken away from you? Sophia Babiloni had sacrificed everything for her career. She had no husband, no children. She had spent each waking hour of her life either performing, or practicing to perform. Her voice had been everything to her.

“Fuck you, Joker...”

It all felt too painfully familiar. Robin had been his life. Robin had been his belonging, his purpose. It had defined him, made him who he had been. For the first time in his life, he had enjoyed and loved every waking moment of his existence, even if it meant cuts and bruises and the occasional broken bone. Even when it meant long nights and nearly falling asleep during his daytime classes and even though it had left him little to no room for anything as trivial as hobbies. Even when he had been aware that it would likely end with him going out in a blaze of gunfire, _Robin_ had been his life. And Joker had taken it from him. He had stolen Robin from Jason with a constant barrage of torture and that damn photo.

He had stolen her voice from Sofia Babiloni, with nothing but a scalpel and god knew what he did to her in the two days between capturing her and setting her free.

He had turned Jason into the Arkham Knight.

He had turned Sophia into Silenzio. The silence.

His fingers moved almost automatically, bringing up the audio files from the Silenzio file.

_My name is Melanie Eveline Rogers. I am thirty-two years, five months and fifteen days old, and this will be the last time I will use my voice._

_My name is Jessica Fraser. I am nineteen years, two months and two days old, and this will be the last time I will use my voice._

_My name is Kelia Cortney Groves. I am thirteen years, eight months and eleven days old, and this will be the last time I will use my voice._

_My name is Rosanna Tory Southers. I am twenty-four years, an eleven months old, and this will be the last time I will use my voice._

_My name is Therese Edwards. I am forty-one years, nine months and twenty days old, and this will be the last time I will use my voice._

Five victims. Five beautiful voices that were now silent forever. Jason didn’t have to wonder what it must have felt like for her, to run into these women, whether by accident or not, to hear them produce such melodious sounds when all she was still able to do was caw through a voice box. He _knew_ how it felt. Part of him had been feeling like that at every glimpse, every mention of Robin. For three years he had dreamed of murdering his replacement as slowly and excruciatingly as possible, too often to be healthy. Him and Dick, too. Jason’s Robin no longer existed and the fact that they did, the fact that somehow they were still allowed to walk this Earth, run across these rooftops and patrol these streets felt like an insult, a mockery, to everything he had lost.

It had taken Batman dismantling his entire masterplan piece by piece, Bruce owning up to his mistakes in what Jason could now, in light of his recent actions, only classify as a bout of temporary insanity, as well as Barbara, Dick and Lucius clinging on to whatever pieces of Jason were left in him and dragging him out of the chill of Arkham that had remained in his body, mind and soul, for him to put his demons to rest. And Tim... Robin... the replacement... fucking PTSD courses must have been worth something, because if Jason was being honest with himself, Tim had possibly been the most helpful of the bunch. In hindsight, Jason couldn’t help but admit that he, too, had been damn, fucking lucky.

He wondered who Sophia Babiloni had had to help her. _If_ she had had _anyone_ to help her.

“Fuck my life...” He stubbed the cigarette out in the nearby ashtray and accessed the Clock Tower servers to run a city wide search for properties owned or leased by Sophia Babiloni. The address he received belonged to a basement apartment on Bleake which, given what he knew of the neighborhood, couldn’t have been much more decent than his shoebox of a safehouse. He programmed the coordinates into the nav unit of his helmet, shut off his laptop and headed for the shower.

Tomorrow, December 17th, was going to be hell.

***

The apartment complex in Chinatown was quiet, despite it being a Saturday. Jason blamed it on this being the last Saturday before Christmas. There was a good chance half the building was out grocery shopping and the other half was out Christmas shopping. He entered through the service hatch on the roof and did a quick scan of the hallway, before taking the elevator down to the basement.

He was already down to the second floor when the call came in. Judging from the strained sound of Oracle’s voice, she was once again the bringer of bad news.

“Red Hood, we have a problem.”

“Don’t we always?” He couldn’t blame her. Not really. He had been the one asking for more privacy. He just hadn’t really processed the fact that that would mean she would now only call him when shit was on fire. “Who’s in trouble this time? Robin? Nightwing? If it’s Robin again, tell him we only just saved his a—“

“There’s a prison break at Blackgate going on _right now_ ,” Barbara cut him off sharply. “We’re talking lots of guns, lots of explosives, at least three confirmed riots and several dozen guards down. GCPD wants all hands on deck.”

 _All hands on deck..._ That was a good joke. Everyone had expected Christmas Eve and Christmas Day to be the wham days and so of course half the force had taken the remainder of their accrued annual vacation time just before that. GCPD was currently understaffed. They didn’t want all _hands_ on deck. They wanted all _wings_ on deck.

The elevator came to a stop on the ground floor. With a deep sigh, Jason stepped out and steeled himself for the pain that was sure to follow.

“Oracle, I will only ask this once and you’d better be honest with me: Will Ghost be there? Or is he already with you guys?”

The fourteen seconds of silence that followed were answer enough and he scoffed as he walked down the stairs to the basement. Still, it was nice to get an answer at last.

“He’s already on his way. So are Nightwing and Robin. I’ve established a separate comms line for the occasion.”

Which meant that he wasn’t listening in on this conversation. Jason was grateful for that. Unfortunately, it didn’t fix the main problem. “Have fun then. Don’t get killed.”

“Red Hood—“

“Oracle, no.” He couldn’t and the sooner he clipped her wings, the better. “I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want him anywhere near me. I don’t...” No. ‘Don’t’ was not the right word. “Oracle I _can’t_. I just—“

“It’s okay, Jason.” Oracle’s voice was soft as a feather. “I know, I know, field names and all that. But it’s okay, really. I just wanted to ask. I’ll tell them you’re busy looking after the rest of Gotham in the meantime, okay?”

 _Behold Barb, the queen of white lies!_ It would never cease to amaze him how easy it seemed for her to come up with an excuse for... pretty much anything. Right now, it was the most wonderful thing in the world. “Thanks, BG. Good luck with the riot.”

He dropped the link quickly and drew his guns as he approached apartment 008. Blackgate was in the best of hands. He had other fish to fry.

The door came apart with a loud bang, revealing the most dismally bleak apartment he had ever seen belonging to a girl. Perhaps it was just his own cultural filter on top of everything, but in all the months and years that he had been investigating crime scenes, one thing had always held true: women – cozy apartments with decorations and personal mementos; men – less clutter, more practical functionality. Except Spartans would have looked at this place and called it empty. A bed with no sheets. A metal table. No chairs. Not even a coffee machine or a water boiler in the kitchenette. He switched to tactical vision and winced at the sight that greeted him. The table, and everything around it, had been scrubbed clean with bleach. Judging from the sharp smell in the air, it couldn’t have been long.

He found the bleached scalpel in the bathroom sink. Just a foot higher, the cabinet door with the mirror on it swung half open. He glanced inside and felt his stomach do a double-turn in an instant.

“Fucking hell...”

The bottles had been labeled with the full name and surgery date of each “patient”. Inside each of them, a set of vocal cords swam in what he presumed to be alcohol, for preservation. The latest bottle read a name he had never heard before. _Briana Macy Yong._ He was too late. On the inside of the door, the names were listed once more, each together with one address, date and time.

“Oh fuck...”

He would have recognized that last address anywhere and if the date and time were correct, he only had four minutes. With a quick string of curses, Jason slammed the door shut and sprinted out of the apartment. He nearly ran down an elderly woman and her Shih Tzu on the way out of the building, but he couldn’t have cared less. His grapple gun connected instantly, taking him to the rooftops of Bleake Island. It wasn’t far, but without a cape, it would still be a bitch. Beneath his feet, building after building rushed by in a haze of grey. The canal lay frozen in dirty white. Dixon Dock West was buried under snow. With one last jump, he connected the grapple hook to the Panessa antenna and assumed his perch.

The car came rolling up on the left side, past the docks, headed for the parking lot. He switched his pistols into their sniper rifle configuration and placed a shot straight into her right front tire. The right back tire was next and soon enough the car came to rest against the wall separating the road from the sea. He disassembled the rifle back into its parts and grappled back down quickly. By the time Sophia crawled out of the front passenger door, he was already waiting for her, guns drawn. In the back of the car, Briana Yong stirred feebly in her seat, throat bandaged and hands cuffed.

“Step away from the car, Sophia.”

“Or you will what? Shoot me?” The voice box turned her laughter into something akin to a witch from some crazy fairytale. Or at least, he imagined that’s what it sounded like. It wasn’t like anyone had ever read him fairytales as a kid. “You bats don’t kill. Everyone knows that.”

Jason scoffed at that. Normally, that comment alone would have been enough to send him over the edge. True, Batman doesn’t fucking kill, but he wasn’t Batman and he certainly wasn’t Robin anymore. Only this time, the rage didn’t come. He was just... tired. It felt surprising and frightening at the same time. It was only when he tried to find a reply to her questions that he realized what was wrong.

“I don’t want to kill you.” God, how long had it been since he had last said that about anyone like her? “Don’t get me wrong: you deserve it for what you did to these women. But I don’t _want_ to kill you. What _he_ did to you was wrong. What _he_ turned you into was wrong. You’ve already suffered enough. So I am giving you a choice: get on your knees, hands on behind your head right now, and I will call GCPD and leave it at that.”

For a moment, there was nothing but sheer confusion on her face. Jason couldn’t blame her. It wasn’t every day that marginally sane vigilantes pointed their guns at you while proclaiming that they actually wanted to let you live. And then it hit him. She was expecting it to be a trick, a cruel game of cat and mouse. It was what _he_ would have done.

“I’m not joking, Sophia. You still have a choice.”

“No, I don’t.” Whatever softness had been left in her raspy, mechanical voice was gone in an instant. “I haven’t had a choice in almost four years.”

The gun had been cleverly hidden in her coat, but of course nothing got past his sensors. She was quick at drawing, he had to give her that, but he was faster. The bullet went clean through her skull in one shot, leaving little more than a red circle on her forehead. The back of her head... that would be another matter of course. “This _was_ your choice, Sophia.” For once, the kill had left him feeling nothing but hollow. Part of him wished it hadn’t ended like that. He could have disarmed her without shooting her.

With a deep sigh, Jason holstered the gun again before turning around to tend to Silenzio’s final victim. Sophia Babiloni was dead. Whatever sorrows she had had were over now. This poor woman on the other hand... “It’s okay.” He tried to sound as non-threatening as possible, knowing fully well that it was a fruitless endeavor. Trying to calm someone down after shooting another person through the head right in front of them was not usually a brilliant idea, but he had to try. “It’s okay. I won’t hu—“

The pain was sharp and instantaneous, like a hot knife being rammed in between his ribs and it forced a loud howl from his throat. It mingled with other sounds that nearly burst his audio receivers. Stone and concrete coming apart with a crack as loud as thunder. A roar, animalistic and yet strangely human, accompanied by the stench of rotten flesh and blood. The loud shriek of bursting metal. He had barely had the time to turn his head to spot a flash of green scales and far too many teeth before he hit the water at ramming speed and a thousand icy needles joined the dagger in his flank.

 _Croc._ The thought instantly filled him with adrenaline, but also with dread. He could feel the large, scaled tail whipping against his legs as the creature dived through the waters, dragging him under and about. Something must have damaged his helmet, because he could feel the water pushing in, pooling around his chin and ears. He took one last gulp immediately and was suddenly eerily reminded of the time he had nearly drowned on patrol with Bruce because none of them had bothered to make sure that Robin knew how to swim.

By the time they got out of the water, his hood was a fish bowl and he was the betta, flinging helplessly in the water. For a moment he was almost weightless, before his back impacted sharply with something harsh and angular. The crowbar-induced scar on his back was on fire in an instant, but he couldn’t have cared less. He could still feel his arms and legs. He still _had_ two arms and legs. That would have to be enough. The guns were out in a second, but before he even had the time to aim – not that he could see much through the murkiness of Gotham Bay inside his helmet – two huge paws had come down on his wrists, pinning him to the ground. He tried to kick, only for a giant, clawed foot to stomp on and crush his right ankle. The scream that tore from his mouth only served in letting in the water.

Suddenly, there was a new sound, pinching, cracking, like something trying to force its way through reinforced material. He forced his eyes open despite the sting of the polluted water and nearly froze. All around his face, sharp yellow spikes were slowly piercing into his helmet. In front of his nose, a blood-red maw gaped, long, spiked tongue slithering across the panel. There was hunger glowing in the yellow orbs above his own eyes.

_He is trying to eat me._

The thought was disturbing on way too many levels, but at the very least it renewed his fighting spirit. He gulped down as much of the water as he could, barely noticing its acid taste as the teeth came ever closer. By the time he had swallowed enough to have his mouth free, he could smell the stench of something rotten hanging in between those fangs.

“Emergency release, omega!” Never before had he heard a sweeter sound than the hinges of his helmet opening. The reinforced plastic material slid off his head without an effort, causing Croc to stumble backwards as he pulled. With the enormous mass of his body, standing on all fours made him look more like a drunken duck than a dangerous cannibalistic killer. Jason grinned through the pain and the blood. “I wish Joker was still alive.”

The helmet beeped once, than exploded into a shrieking mess of razor-sharp plastic shards. Some of them ended up in the scenery – _some dark and dreary cavern in the ruins of ACE Chemicals_ , not-Robin noted with a tinge of horror – but most of it ended up in Croc, who was now rolling on the floor, howling in agony. Jason was ready to count that as win. He backed up against the wall, wincing as his uninjured side rubbed against something sharp that tore through his armor, but he didn’t care. He needed to get back up onto his one good leg. He needed to find an anchor—

“Fuck!” His grapnel gun was missing. Somewhere between the road near Panessa and the ruins of ACE, he had lost his grapnel gun in the waves of the bay. His flash bang grenades were still there, though. He grabbed one, drew the pin and threw it without looking, then grabbed his guns. _Soft spots on the belly_ , Jason reminded himself. _There’s no overkill. There’s only fire and reload._

From the red mist of his grenade, a bleached clown strolled towards him.

“So you _do_ miss me, _Todders_...”

_No no no no no no!!!_

He dodged the incoming attack on pure instinct, trying to roll as far as he could while ignoring both the pain throughout his body and the various skeletal remains he was sliding across. It couldn’t be him. Joker was dead. It must have been some lingering fear gas in this damn ruin. Or maybe just his fucked up psyche. Or maybe—

Wherever his mind had been trying to go with that thought, it was cut short when something massive hit him straight in the gut. Out of the corner of his eye, it had looked vaguely like a crowbar, only crowbars were not usually that long or green or had scales. Before he had time to finish his rationalization of what was happening, Joker’s feet came down hard on his legs with inhuman strength. One shattered his shin. The other pinned down his broken ankle. The clown was laughing as his hands raked across Jason’s stomach, tearing open the Kevlar as if it were made from paper.

“You. Just. Don’t. Know. When. To. Quit!” One of the gloved hands tore into the wound by his rips while the other slammed down hard on his right hand, crushing his pistol against his flesh. He could feel two of his fingers break in slow motion. Suddenly, that bloody grin was straight above his own mouth, poisonous green eyes staring into his own pale blue. “Newsflash, Todders. You’ll die alone and in pain. Bats doesn’t care. Nightbrat and Replacement-Robin don’t care. None of them care. You’ll die alone. And in pain. And _slow._..”

It was a lie. It had to be a lie. With a harsh cry, Jason summoned what strength he had left and emptied the gun in his left hand into that bleached nightmare face. He didn’t wait to see how much damage he had done, instead reloading and firing once more. The crowbar swung for his hand once more, but his arm dodged it by sheer reflex. The tip of it hit him in the face instead, raking over the J on his cheek and sending the scar ablaze once more. _Fire and reload._ He emptied every magazine he could reach, then whipped the pistol across the ugly bastard’s face for good measure. The clown wailed in pain, but his grip remained relentless.

 _Just hang on, Jason_ , not-Robin reasoned. _When that helmet went kaboom the tracker in your waistband activated. Even if Bats doesn’t come, Nightwing and Robin will. They WILL come, they will—_

 _The tracker..._ He froze over in an instant. All of a sudden, it was as if he was paralyzed. Back in the cell with the tiles and the water and the cattle prod and the drugs and— _Oh god, I can’t feel the tracker._ It should have activated. It should have sent a pulse, like the pricking of a needle into his skin, but there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Off comms. No tracker. He was a ghost.

Before he had time to realize the full implications, Joker was back on him, grinning madly. “You’re not a ghost, Jason. You are a dead bat.”

The bloody lips parted, jaw opening wider than should have been humanly possible. And then, there was nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terribly sorry for the cliff hanger and I promise I will try to write while I'm on vacation. Mind you, I will be writing on a phone and uploading using crappy hostel wifi...


	11. Blood And Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They might not be related by blood, but to him it makes no difference. Blood is thicker than water. Family comes before duty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger rescue is here, folks! Please keep in mind that I typed this chapter on a phone. Probably full of typos. Will proof-read when I am back from vacation. Also, copy/pasting on android suuuuuuuucks...

Everything was on fire. The walls of Blackgate shone bright red in the distance, clearly visible against the night sky even from a dozen miles away. Even Gotham Bay was ablaze, a sea of red, gold and orange. For a moment, Dick Grayson felt like he was truly heading into the depths of hell.

And then he was suddenly there. The car was the same shade of midnight black it had always been. It roared past him in a flash and Dick grinned as he revved the engine of his bike. If Bruce wanted a race, he would get one.

They eventually arrived at the same time, stopping just shy of Blackgate's parking lot, where GCPD was trying its best to defend the prison. Unfortunately, the Swans seemed to have brought everything they had to the party. There were too many armed thugs to count, too many explosives for anyone to feel comfortable. If Bruce, Ghost, was impressed by any of it, he didn't show it.

"I'll head over to Cash, get a status update." He ditched the bike by the side of the road and grappled into the fray quickly. Bullets past his face he was used to. It was the motar fire that eventually had him duck behind the nearest cover and shield his head with his left arm. "See, this is what I picture every time people tell me they don't ever want to move to Gotham because of the weather."

"Can't really blame'em," Aaron lobbed back at him while trying to pick off some of the sideline fighters with his rifle. Up high on the hill, one of the snipers that had been trying to get a shot at them suddenly disappeared. Another started screaming in panic. "All you boys helping us out tonight?"

Dick wasn't sure. Outside of Robin's enthusiastic "on my way" he hadn't heard anything from his brothers.

"Robin's currently in Burnley," Oracle chimed in through the joint comms line. It was the only part of their communications system that Bruce had access to. "He'll be with you in ten. Red Hood has his hands full already. Someone needs to stay behind and look after the rest of Gotham while you guys are busy here."

He relayed the news to Cash as presented, then turned his attention back to the comm. "Tell Red he's welcome to join us, if he runs out of road to patrol." That of course was code for 'tell me what's really happening'. He and Barbara had had practice in that ever since they had first become Robin and Batgirl, repectively. As expected, Barb switched to a private line with only Robin and him immediately.

"He doesn't want to deal with Bruce. Honestly, I think just the mere idea of being near him is stressing him out."

 

"I don't blame him," Robin said without a hint of remorse to his voice.

"Neither, do I."

"Agreed." It hurt more than Dick liked to admit. When Jason had taken them to Bracken and proven that Bruce was still alive, Dick had briefly entertained the thought, the hope, that they might finally be able to bring the entire family together.

In short, he had been an idiot. He had forgotten how outright blunt and merciless Jason could be, how emotionally impaired Bruce always had been, and how badly those two things went together. The result had been a reunion that was far from happy. It had been three weeks now and Dick still wasn't entirely sure whether he should just hug Bruce or punch him. Maybe both.

To his right, Cash's radio crackled loudly. Of course, Oracle had already hacked into dispatch, letting him hear the message loud and clear. Someone had made use of the hole Jones had ripped through the wall last Halloween to blow up the side of the north wing from the sea, creating an easy escape route for most of the high security prisoners. Thanks to tbe suppressing fire from the front and the riots on the lower levels, GCPD had no one to spare.

"Robin, help Cash and the defense team when you get here. Nightwing - with me." Of course Bruce was taking charge again, just like always. Dick rolled his eyes. He wasn't going to argue, not when he would have suggested exactly the same thing, but apparently whatever lessons Bruce should have learned about teamwork last year had fallen on deaf ears. He filled Cash in on the plan quickly before grappling after Ghost.

Robin arrived to the party just as they had made their way to the north wing. It was pure chaos. Nearly all the guards were dead, nearly all the cells empty. Whoever had been planning this had planned it to the last detail and he doubted the Swans would have gone through this much trouble just to free Cobblepot, particularly since Candace Harper seemed to have been genuinely repulsed by the things she had had to do for him during her time as his 'assistant'. Something was off. He could feel it in his gut.

For starters, someone had hacked into the security mainframe and shut all the blast doors between them and the site of the wall breach, while opening all the cell doors in max security. Either someone in this joint was corrupt to the core, or they had an undiagnosed criminal genius in one of those cells. So far, the only person he knew who could have been smart enough to arrange all of this was Nigma, and he had been a whimpering mess sitting in isolation for his own protection ever since day one. Prison was rarely kind to those with little physical strength.

Naturally, something as meager as a blast door was not going to stop any bat. He was just about to ask Oracle to hack the security mainframe when he looked to the upper level where Bruce seemed to have had exactly the same thought. The holo extended from his gauntlet with utmost clarity and the sight send a chill down his spine.

He wasn't calling Oracle. The feeling of warmth and sheer happiness and joy that settled in his gut was almost ridiculous.

"Penny One!" He knew that something was wrong the moment Bruce bristled, but Dick chose to ignore it. This was Alfred. The Alfred. He was going to eat his own suit if he wouldn't say hello at least. He chose to end his grapple manouver with a triple somersault and a perfect ten landing on the railing behind Bruce. Alfred had loved his stunts. He had always been the best audience.

"Master... Grayson?" Be could feel the smile falter on his face. Of all the reactions he had expected out of Alfred, sheer shock and stunned silence had been the least likely. "Master Grayson, is that really you?"

"Well, actually it's Nightwing while I'm on the job..." Maybe Jason wasn't here to chew him out over field protocols, but he knew how much it pissed his little brother off when they used their real names. He may not have been here in person, but somehow using that as an excuse to slack off just felt like an insult. "Yeah... it's me. Don't act so surprised." He wasn't sure what the fuzz was about. "I mean, we've been in sporadic contact with Bats ever since that little Thanksgiving family reunion Jason arranged for us. Of course we'd be here on a night like this."

At last, Dick caught a good look at Alfred's face. He looked... old. Old, and worn and almost... haunted, for lack of a better word and for a split second he wanted to murder whoever had made him look and sound so terrible. "Master Todd... You are in contact with him?"

 

He doesn't know... The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. Whatever confusion had been left in him warped into distilled hatred and disgust. "Ghost..."

The holo link cut off with a sharp click. Under the cowl, Bruce's face was as void of emotion as usual. "Alfred left Gotham the week before Halloween to look after his sister Margaret. She died of COPD last week. Alfred only just came back from England yesterday."

"AND YOU THINK THAT MAKES IT OKAY??!!!" He didn't care if every crook this side of the canteen could hear them. He didn't care that it was his own father and former mentor he was yelling at. "This is Alfred you're talking about! ALFRED! That man's been a father to you since you were old enough to tie your shoe laces! He's like a grandfather to all three of us. Every year on Jason's birthday he'd be standing in Jay's room crying over his loss and you didn't even bother to tell him that Jay's trying to reconnect with us?! We're not living in the dark ages you know. You could have called him, texted him, sent him a mail-- did... Did you even tell him he's still alive?"

"Yes."

"Oh good." He threw his hands up in the air and started pacing to walk off his frustration. It was either that or punching Bruce in the face. "Congratulations. You finally showed some emotional competence. Do you want a medal now?!"

 

"Dick--"

"Field names, Ghost!" This couldn't be happening. It just--

It was the frantic beeping of his comms unit that kept his thoughts from spiralling down into the depths of unveiled fury that he always dreaded to tap. Jason had no such compunctions and perhaps that was why he usually ended up being the most effective at dealing with Bruce, even if the effect did not come out as intended.

Dick took a deep breath and counted to five before he took the call. "I hear you, Oracle. What's up?"

"I think Red Hood's in trouble." She didn't just think it. She knew it. He could tell from the cold steel in her voice. "The emergency biometrics transmitter in his helmet came on just a minute ago and his vitals were off the charts. Then the feed just cut out. I can't reach him no matter how often I try."

"What about his emergency tracker?" If Robin was even the slightest bit distressed he didn't show it. "That should have come online the moment his primary tracker went offline."

 

"It did." Dick could practically hear her frown through the line. "And according to that he's at ACE."

ACE?" Dick scratched his head in confusion. "Since when is he investigating ACE Chemicals? Which office?"

"Not the office, Dick. The factory. And yes, I mean the biohazard ruin off Bleake Island. The one he, according to his casefiles, had been suspecting to be Killer Croc's hideout."

 

Dick froze. To his right, Bruce bristled. He could only imagine what Tim and Barb were doing right now.

"According to Hood's files he's been working on a trap for Croc for weeks. I refuse to believe he would just scrap all of that and go in guns blazing."

"Which means Croc got to him first," Robin concluded."I'll go get him. Snipers and mortar are.down anyways. Cash can handle the rest."

 

"Wait by my bike." Dick added quickly. "I remember Iron Heights. No way are any of us facing Jones alone." He had already turned on his heels and was just about to grapple back the way he had come when the familiar feeling of a kevlar-gloved hand wrapping around his arm stopped him. Normally, it would have calmed him. Instead, he felt like breaking every bone in those fingers. "Don't even think of telling me not to--"

"I won't." For once there was no disapproval, no malcontent in Bruce's voice. Instead be sounded old. Old and hurt and worried. "But take this with you." Dick looked at the small vials of green that were pushed into his hand with mild confusion. "It's a neutralizing agent I synthesized for the fear gas strain Scarecrow used. It works best when used before exposure and I only carry two on me."

But right now I wish I carried three. Dick felt the anger fade slowly. Sometimes he forgot that what Bruce didn't say was often more important than what he did say.

The way back was thankfully quiet and uneventful, but even so every step felt like it was taking too long. Jason's backup tracker had no integrated bio sensor. All they knew was that he was at ACE and that he hadn't moved an inch in almost two minutes. The strictly rational part of him knew that likely meant Jason was either trapped or very badly injured, but he pushed the thought down. He couldn't lose his little brother. Not again.

Robin was already waiting for him when he finally returned to his bike. He jumped on and hit the pedal as soon as he felt the additional weight and warmth of Robin's torso on the backseat. The cop inside him knew that he was breakjng at least half a dozen traffic regulations and at least four separate speed limits. The brother in him didn't care. He slid the bike to a halt just shy of the end of the bridge and tossed Robin one of the vials as well as one of his own rebreathers. The neutralizing agent made his skin feel as if he had ants crawling in his veins, but he was going to take that over fear-gas-induced insanity any day. With one last nod at Robin, Nightwing grappled into the factory.

Even on the surface ACE was a toxic wasteland. He could feel something acid sting on the patches of skin that his suit didn't cover, though his mind thankfully seemed to be fear-gas-free. Finding Jason was not the issue - Oracle had refined their trackers to be accurate down to two feet. Getting to him was a different matter though. There were at least two tons of rubble and a giant lizard man between them. Literally. From what be could gather from his cowl vision, Croc had Jason pinned to the ground, unmoving, and was ready to eat his face.

Tim had the explosive gel ready and primed in an instant. The heavy pieces of debris came apart with a sickening crunch, raining dust and rubble upon both their targets.

 

He went for Croc first, grabbing hold of the huge spikes of his left shoulder with the batclaw and forcing him off Jason. He wasn't sure which of the two sights in front of him was worse.

Jason was lying unmoving on a bed of skeletal corpses. Even a quick cursory scan told him that he had broken several bones and that his vitals were switching like crazy from far too erratic to pretty much non-existent. The left side of his body was eerily void of any ammunition.

 

Instead, the bullets were in Jones now. He could see where the shots had entered the soft underbelly, but the blood loss seemed to be minimal and if Croc was affected by any of them, he didn't let it show. Half his face was a scaleless bloody mess, the other half had what looked like bits and pieces of Jason's helmet stuck in them. His liitle brother had not gone down without a fierce fight.

Robin moved in first, bringing his bo staff down as hard and as often as he could, all the while dodging swipes of Croc's tail and claws. Nightwing covered him with one electrified escrima stick after the other, but it hardly seemed to matter. Croc just kept on coming. He had just finished dodging another hit when the tail caught him hard in the ribs and sent him fllying against what was left of a nearby support pillar. He landed face first in something hard and spiky that he quickly realized to be the remains of a human rib cage and scrambled back onto his feet instantly. On the other side of the small, collapsed cavern, Croc had Robin pressed face first into a wall, teeth edging closer to his throat by the second. This was not the time for restraint. With a loud cry, Dick climbed up the scaly back and rammed his escrima sticks straight into the pair of hungry, golden eyes. Fifty-thousand volts later, Croc was howling, swiping blindly at an enemy that was no longer there. Robin used the chance to plant a set of three explosive-gel-coated snapflashes around his neck. They detonated simultaneously, leaving both of them shielding their eyes from the hail of flying scales and pieces of bone. Croc fell with a heavy thud. Through the garish wounds in his neck, Dick could see the white bone of his spine.

"Oh God..." Robin glanced back and forth between him and Croc in a mix of admiration and horror. "Did we..."

 

"He's still breathing. That's good enough for me." Technically it wasn't. He could feel the same dread he saw in Tim's eyes settle in his own gut, but it didn't matter. Not right now. Maybe Jason wasn't his biological brother, but screw it. It was an idiom anyway. Blood is thicker than water. "Let's get Jay and get out of here."

That was easier said than done. Up close, the damage looked downright horrific. He tried to think of anything but the gaping hole in Jason's left flank as he hooked an arm around him gently and fired off his grapple gun. It only took him two shots to take them back to the bridge, but by the time he did Jason's vitals were in the gutter and his face pale as the snow on the bridge. He grabbed the first aid kit from his bike and did his best to stem the bleeding. "Oracle, we need an ambulance here, now!"

"And how exactly do you think that's going to end?" Robin asked while he took care of what looked like a far too nasty cut in Jason's right. "Red Hood's on the most wanted list of pretty much everyone in Gotham and without the hood to cover up his face he's pretty damn recognizable."

 

"Do you have a better idea!?"

"The Manor."

Dick nearly choked on his own breath. "Are you insane?"

"It's got a fully functional infirmary, equipped for anything from stitches to surgery, antidotes for every chemical we've ever encountered and best of all, no one's gonna try to murder him."

Tim had a point. Dick cursed under his breath as he discarded the blood-soaked bandage. "So how do we get him there? I can't take him on the bike like this."

From the road leading back to the island, a voice he had prayed but barely hoped to hear in person again, answered with the same warm assuredness they had all missed so much. "Why, I shall drive him of course, Master Grayson."

***

For years Dick had wondered where Bruce had learned how to drive. Now he knew. If there was a corner that could be cut, Alfred cut it. Traffic lights and signs suddenly became more of a guideline than a rule. He drove as if the devil himself was chasing him and Dick couldn't really blame him. He had locked his cowls analytics to Jason's vitals and what he saw wasn't good. With every second that passed they were losing him a little more.

As promised by Tim, the infirmary in the basement of Wayne Manor was fully stocked for any and all emergencies, including ten pints of blood for every blood type between the four of them. He reached for two of the bags labelled B- before Alfred even had the chance to tell him to do so and prepped the transfusion.. Tim's long term stay and Barb's eidectic memory had led to all supplies and tools being pretty much in the same place they always had been, and so Dick had the pleasure of watching Alfred go to work with an assuredness and focus as if he had never left.

It would have been downright enjoyable if it hadn't been for Jason's life hanging in the balance.

 

It took both him and Tim to peel Jason out of the double kevlar he always wore without doing more damage than Croc had already done. The initial bite had broken three ribs and taken a chunk of flesh straight out of his side. However, judging from the deep and fresh clawmarks all over his abdomen and chest Croc hadn't stopped there. He did his best to clean off the blood from the rest of Jason's torso while Alfred and Tim worked on the bite. His relief at seeing most of the blood gone was as intense as it was short-lived.

Underneath the fresh injuries, Jason's torso was a battlefield of scars, almost all of which he was fairly certain had not been there before Joker. Some of them he could identify - clean cuts from a knife, circular burns like from a stubbed out cigarette, chemical burns with irregular edges like from drops of acid, the harsh jagged lines of a thorned whip, the tree-like pattern of electrical burns - but some of them he could not and did not want to imagine how he had gotten them. What made it worse was that his body was littered with them. It was hard finding a square inch that hadn't been marked. It made his stomach turn and the rage swell inside his gut.

 

"They are not your fault and there's nothing you can do about them." Tim's voice was nothing if not sympathetic. He tried to imagine what it must have felt like for him.... back when he had sewn up Jason's shoulder. Tim had remained true to his word and had not said a single thing about it to Barb or Dick.

Jason's arms didn't look much better in terms of old wounds, but at the very least Croc had done comparatively little damage except for breaking the ring and middle finger of his right hand. He set to washing the blood and grime off Jason's face and out of his hair while Alfred set the broken bones and Tim finished stitching up the remaining cuts and slashes. His back had remained relatively undamaged, although the existing scar tissue more than made up for it. Among all of them, one scar stood out in particular, a ghastly thing just below the shoulder blades and only slightly to the side of his spine that looked like someone had tried to crack him like an egg. He took a moment to trace both that one and the circular line around his neck with his fingertips. Whatever circle of hell Joker was in, Dick hoped the bastard was suffering.

The boots came off next. Despite sturdy shin guards, Croc had managed to fracture his left tibia and crush his right ankle. As if that one hadn't been broken often enough before. Dick remembered his initial discovery of the injury after Whaler's Arch as well as Jason's reluctant admittance that it was one of the injuries from his time with Joker that still gave him trouble to this day. He could only hope and pray that the broken bone would mend properly one more time. The sight of the many burn scars on the soles of his feet, the strange, circular marks with the torn edges all over his feet and calves and the many irregular cuts all along his thighs did not make it any better.

 

In the end, it had taken them the better part of two hours to fix all the critical and visible injuries. Now the real work could begin. Despite successfully fixing the blood loss and treating all his broken bones, Jason's vitals continued to go haywire, jumping from practically non-existent to dangerously high in a matter of seconds. His torso was a furnace and he was definitely running a fever, but his limbs and face were ice. Dick peeked over Tim's shoulders as the results of the blood analysis rolled in, turning away only for a short moment to accept the cup of tea Alfred had just brewed for him.

"Jesus Christ..." Tim pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "This isn't a blood sample, it's a chemical trial. He's got substances in his blood that even Barb's servers don't have any info on."

"In this case, should we really administer the fear gas antidote that I brought along?" Alfred sipped slowly on his own cup of tea, as they read through the list of chemicals. The computer had found a 83% match to Scarecrow's Halloween fear gas, which meant that whatever fear gas had lingered in the ruins had mutated. Dick considered it a great blessing that neither he nor Tim seemed to have suffered any ill effects. "What if it reacts with any of the other unidentified toxins inside his blood? What if it makes it worse?"

"I  know..." He watched Tim scroll up and down the remaining data. "Silver lining here is that none of it seems to be doing damage to any vital organs. I hate saying this, but I think our best course of action might be to just let his body try to detox itself first and keep an eye on his bio-readings to make sure we can react if anything goes wrong."

"That's your genius plan?" Dick looked at Tim in utter disbelief. "We just wait and sip tea while Jason fights for his life?"

"No, we wait and treat his symptoms while Jason fights for his life. I doubt we'll have time for tea."

He wanted to argue, but he knew it was pointless. Alfred and Tim were right. The risk of worsening Jason's condition was worse than the potential benefit. There was nothing more that he could do for his brother. Again.

The feeling came back with a sudden and unbidden visciousness that had him fall into the chair next to the stretcher Jason was lying on, hooked up to an IV and far too many vital monitors to be comfortable. He was helpless. His brother, his little wing, was hurt and in pain and there was absolutely nothing he could do to help him. His hands wrapped around Jason's uninjured left almost automatically. He was cold as a morgue.

"Please, dear God..." He hadn't prayed for anything in a long time, but if not now, then when? "Please don't take him away from us. Not again, please. Please..."

***

By the time Barbara arrived at the manor, the sky was already getting brighter. Apparently, Bruce had once again cemented his reputation as a one man army. Blackgate was secure again and even though they had yet to do a full headcount, most of the truly dangerous crazies had been apprehended. Dick was grateful that his sudden abandoning of the mission had not resulted in a complete fail. Unfortunately, that only made what followed even harder.

 

No one had told Bruce where to find Jason, of course, but it didn't take the World's Greatest Detective to figure that one out. Not when all of them were gathered in the manor. None of them were surprised to find him strolling up to the front door like he owned the place. Thst didn't mean they had to like it. With a deep sigh, Dick let go of Jason's hand and got up to leave. "Stay with Jason, Barb. We'll handle it."

Ghost was still in full costume of course, his expression unreadable beneath the cowl. "Where is he?"

"Nice to see you alive and in one piece, too," Dick lobbed back at him. Two could play this game. Bruce may have had a few inches and pounds on him, but he had Tim hovering just a step back. They were brothers after all and brothers looked after each other. "Jay's alive. Several broken bones and in a coma thanks to a bad case of chemical poisoning, but he's alive." When Bruce stepped aside to pass him, Dick moved to block his way instantly. Under the cowl, Bruce's lips pressed into a thin line of annoyance. He couldn't have cared less. "Do you know why Jason didn't join us for Blackgate tonight? Because he didn't want to see you, talk to you, or even be anywhere near you. The last thing he needs now is you."

He hadn't expected his words, harsh as they were, to have any effect, but they did. Bruce stopped instantly and while his face remained hard as steel, his voice softened ever so slightly. "If his condition is as bad as you say, he won't even know I'm there. I need to see him."

"One," Dick took a deep breath to brace himself for what was bound to be a very painful experience for everyone, "there's no way for any of us to know just how much he knows of what's happening around him. Two, your idea of a first one-on-one conversation was to glide kick him into a badly injured shoulder and chew him out for saving a room full of cops from death by frag grenade. Forget Jason - I don't want you anywhere near him right now."

"He killed--"

 

"A convicted mass murderer who was about to throw a grenade into a crowded room!" Dick interrupted quickly. "I'm-- I was a cop, Bruce. Nobody in that room would have hesitated to shoot the son of a bitch."

"I taught you to be better than that. All of you. And Day was not the only one."

And there it was. That growl of disapproval. Dick had only heard it very rarely, but Jason had often complained about it during their monthly sparring sessions. Back then, Dick had assumed that it was just teenaged perception bias leading his little brother to perceive hostility where there was none. Now, he wanted to kick himself. He had been failing Jason long before Joker got a hold of him. If he had paid more attention, if he had tried to mediate the now obvious differences between Bruce and Jason, would he still have run off on his own to kill Joker?

"I don't approve of Jason's methods," he finally admitted. "But rubbing that in his face is not going to help. He's not some unrepented, homicidal maniac, Bruce. His life has been a nightmare almost exclusively from day one to now. You don't know what that has done to him. What Joker did to him."

 

"And you do?"

He's fishing for information. The realization hit him like a bucket of ice water. Normally he would have told him to go and ask Jason himself, but even if that had been an option, it would only have ended in more broken bones and damaged egos. Bruce wanted answers that Jason was in no state of mind to give and Jason... Jason was very good at pretending he didn't want or need anything, even though that couldn't be further from the truth.

 

Jason was going to kill him, if or when he found out about this.

"I don't even know half of it," Dick admitted. "But here are a few things I do know: He came back for you at the Asylum and saved your life without shooting Scarecrow. He saved me from poisoning myself. He forced himself back into his Arkham Knight gear to help me get a breakthrough on the Swans case without shooting anyone. He helped Tim take down Tetch, but he didn't shoot him. He went undercover as a homeless street rat in the middle of a blizzard to help Tim get a breakthrough on the Crazy Quilt case and he didn't kill Dekker. It took us months to get him to patrol with us and when he first did it, he killed almost every crook that came into his sights. Nowadays, he leaves most of them alone when he's on patrol with us, even without us asking for it. Do you see a pattern here? Because I sure do."

 

If Bruce did see the pattern, he wasn't sharing. Not that 'sharing' had ever been a popular word in his vocabulary. Dick sighed and pinched his nose in frustration. "He's not killing because he's enjoying it, Bruce. He's killing because he thinks, feels, that that's the only way to keep this city and us, all of us, safe. He kills when he feels like there is no back up, no one to trust to have his back and make sure these scumbags don't get away with rape and murder. Do you have any idea how much time and effort it took us to get him to trust us as much he does now? He had a hard enough of time doing that back when he was fourteen. I hope you remember that. Do you think fifteen months of physical and psychological torture made it any easier? Do you think spending three years living off nothing but hate and anger and the promise of revenge made it easier? Do you think learning that all of it was based on lies made trusting anyone or anything any easier for him?"

"I offered him to come home," Bruce stated matter-of-factly, as if that was all the explanation anyone should ever need. "I told him we could fix it together."

WHAT? For a few moments, all Dick could do was stare at him, dumbfounded and at a total loss for words. Out of the corner of his right eye he could see Tim facepalm in exasperation.

"The home you blew up?" Tim's voice was sharp like the edge of a batarang. "Together with whom? The only halfway responsible and caring father figure he had ever had, who promptly walked out of jis life the same night? Or the loving grandfather he didn't even have a chance to say goodbye to?" Beneath the domino mask, Tim's face hardened. "Bruce, trust and respect aren't freebies. Nobody cares how much money you have or how much ass you can kick. Trust and respect can only be earned based on your performance as a friend or family. And your performance with Jason so far has been absolutely dismal. Dick and I might be able to acknowledge that it's your issue, not ours, because we had functional families before you. We know how this is supposed to work. Jason did not have that privilege. I have seen his training records and your comments on them on the servers, by the way. Would it have killed you to praise him for good performances every once in a while, instead of just comparing him to Dick at every turn? Would it have killed you to tell him you're happy he's still alive before you aggrevate the injuries Joker gave him and start criticizing him again?"

"That has nothing to do with the situation at hand." The first hints of frustration were creeping into Bruce's voice. It shouldn't have been a welcome change, but Dick felt strangely relieved. At the very least, Bruce still seemed to care about something.

"It has everything to do with it," Dick countered. "Because here's a few things we learned while you were pretending you were dead. Things you should have learned together with us: Jason's tried to drown his nightmares of the asylum so often, he downed an entire bottle of Santa Priscan rum all by himself during the reading of your will and his choice of alcohol for harmless drinking games is Park Row moonshine. He won't eat anything he hasn't cooked himself, because Joker poisoned his food, including a posioned birthday cake, which backfired spectacularly last August when we tried to give him some. He gets furious every time we don't use field names, because half the time Joker tortured him, he did it to find out our identities and Jay never told him, not even when he was already sure we had abandoned him. He's got nerve damage in his shoulders and right ankle that still puts him out of commission occasionally. Speaking of his ankle, it must have been broken multiple times during his time with Joker, because even before Croc the trauma was easily visible on xray. He's constantly waiting for us to give up on him. He won't even let any of us look at his scars, probably for that same reason. He's thought of committing suicide at least once. And despite all this crap, he's still trying to protect Barb, Tim and me at any cost. He's still trying to protect Gotham at any cost. He doesn't need a lecture, Bruce. He needs support. He needs a home, a family."

From the slowly brightening sky above their heads, a fresh flurry of powdery white was floating down to the earth, mottling their suits for a few seconds before melting. It was a welcome change from the blizzards that had been ravaging Gotham for the last weeks. Dick hoped it would last until Jason woke up. It would be a painful awakening either way. He didn't need nerve damage on top of it. In front of him, Bruce's hand slowly went to the release mechanism of the cowl. Underneath the black kevlar, Bruce had never looked so tired and beaten.

"I only want to see him, Dick. I only want to know he's going to be okay."

"Well, I guess you'll just have to take our word for it." It was a cruel thing to do, Dick knew that. And it hurt. It hurt having to do that to the man he considered his second father, but prioritizing had always been very high on the list of essential bat skills. "Consider it a lesson in trust, Bruce. I used to trust you, sometimes even blindl, but not anymore. And right now, I have more important things to worry about. You told me to take care of my brothers. This is me. Taking care of Jason."

"Tim..."

"No, Bruce." Tim remained unmoving. With his shoulders squared and his right hand on his bo staff, he almost looked as intimidating as Jason so often and effortlessly did. "I agree with Dick. And since this is technically my property now and you are technically trespassing, please leave."

"Alfred..."

 

Dick turned around just long enough to find the old butler standing silently to his left. Alfred had always had a talent for seemingly disappearing out of and into thin air. Perhaps that was where Bruce had picked up the habit.

"My sincerest apologies, Master Bruce." The pain was obvious in his voice. This was not a choice Dick would have wanted to force on anyone, least of all Alfred. "However, I concur with Master Grayson and Master Drake. At this point, your presence by Master Todd's side stands to do more harm than good. With your permission, I shall ready the car."

"Don't." It was almost eery to see the way Bruce's face sank together with his voice. The expression was sad, alien and mildly disturbing all at once. For lack of a better word, Bruce looked defeated. "You swore to serve the Wayne family, not Bruce Wayne, and that family includes three sons." The cowl came back on with a quick pull and tap. It may have masked his face, but there was no hiding the strain on his voice. "Jason will be very happy to see you."

***

Next to Jason's bed, Barbara had her escrima sticks out the moment the door opened, her brow furrowed into that trademark bat scowl. Dick couldn't help but wonder how devastated he must have looked for her to drop the sticks and immediately switch to concerned sister mode. "How bad was it?"

"I don't ever want to do this again." Tim ripped off his domino in disgust and flung it into the nearest corner together with his bo staff. "Part of me feels like a complete monster."

"I feel like I'm gonna throw up," Dick agreed as he walked over to the bed. One of his hands curled around Jason's uninjured left, the other combed through his sweat soaked hair gently.

"Well, if you do it, don't do it on Jason," Barbara shot him a quick grin before her eyes fell on Alfred. The warm look of happiness that washed over her features made the situation just a little better. "So... Bruce left. You don't think he's going to stay away, do you?"

"It is highly unlikely, Miss Gordon-Drake," Alfred agreed. "However, since Master Bruce effectively told me to stay here and take care of young Master Todd until he has recovered, I will gladly remain by his side to look after him."

"Same here," Barbara agreed immediately. "We can take turns. Split the workload."

 

"I'm in. But first, I suggest we move Jason upstairs." When he noticed the confused looks flung into his direction, Tim rubbed tiredly at his eyes."Okay, don't tell Jason that I told you this, but when we caught Tetch, Jason tried to shoot him. I tried to stop him and we ended up tackling each other into one of the underground cells Tetch was keeping the girls in. Jason had a panic attack. I think Joker probably kept him in an underground cell, so I doubt he'll appreciate waking up in the basement."

"We are definitely moving him to the first floor," Barb said with a voice that left no room for arguing. It managed to paint a hint of a smile onto Dick's lips.

"Do you hear that, Little Wing? We're gonna get you a nice room with a great window view and one of us will always be here to look after you and keep Bats away."

"You know..." Tim raised an eyebrow at him. "Bruce is right about one thing: it's highly unlikely that he can hear you."

"Unlikely, but not impossible." He bit his lower lip hard enough to make it go numb. "Don't tell Jason that I told you this, but when we took down the guys at Whaler's Arch, when he went undercover as the Knight, he actually asked me to keep talking throughout it all. Said he still had the Knight's voice in his head almost every day. That plus Joker and Bruce's disappointment. If there is even a chance that I can make him see he's not alone with this, I'll do it."

"I should have decked Bruce in the face again," Tim moaned through another facepalm. Barbara simply shook her head.

"Even you'll run out of things to talk about sooner or later. Feel free to raid the library."

"Would said library happen to include the American Forensic Journal, Neuroscience Monthly, Pioneering Engineering or Sketch Art's Finest?" Alfred, of course, was once more handing out tea. Barbara took her cup with a quick shake of her head.

"No. Why?"

"Because Master Todd had subscriptions to those magazines. I am quite confident that he has not had a chance to read any of the issues since May 2011."

Barb grinned at him over her cup of apple and cinnamon. "Challenge accepted."


	12. To Those Who Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just because they saved Jason's life doesn't mean he will be alright. Tim knows that. But all good things come to those who wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More vacation writing hijinx! This trip is doing wonders for my muse, but typing and posting on a phone is such a pain...
> 
> This was originally another Nightwing POV. Then it occured to me a few days ago that Tim and Lucius are the only batfam members who have not yet had a chapter in this series, so I scrapped the first page and started over.
> 
> @Cerusee: If I could gift individual chapters, this one would be for you. Enjoy :)

He was waiting when Tim came back from patrol, lurking just outside the fence surrounding the manor, watching the third window on the first floor of the south wing with a single-minded intensity. Not just any window. The window.

By now, Tim was no longer surprised by Bruce's presence. None of them were. As sure as mass ends with amen, Batman showed up in this spot at least once a day and if it weren't for Barb's pretty much unhackable security system coupled with the automated defense turrets provided by a nameless donor who Tim was pretty sure was called Jason, he would likely not have stopped at the fence. That, and the fact that there were always at least two people in the room. With a heavy sigh and a light thud, Tim landed by Batman's side.

"The answer is still 'no', Bruce. But he is getting better, if that's any consolation for you."

"He is in pain."

The cowl... He bent forward slightly and sure enough the white glow of the cowl vision was hiding Batman's eyes. Unfortunately, it unhid everything else. It unhid how Jason was thrashing in his bed, or at least trying to. They had strapped him down good after the first episode in which he had nearly broken his ankle even further. It unhid his pulse and heartbeat being off the damn charts. It unhid the rapid acceleration of his breathing. It unhid the fact that his body temperature was too high to be comfortable or healthy.

Thank God he had instructed the architects and builders to make each room sound-proof.

"The answer is still 'no'."

He watched as Batman turned and left, waiting until he had fully disappeared into the snow-covered forest, before deactivating the security system just long enough to slip inside. He discarded the mask, cape and gauntlets as he went from the back door to the room, ditching them in the fake plant pots that would guide them down to his cave in the basement. With one last deep breath, Tim opened the oak door.

Jason was screaming at the top of his scarred lungs, a dark and vicious, almost feral sound that only seemed amplified by its contrast with the steady, soothing murmurs of Dick's soft voice as he clung onto his younger brother for dear life, stroking his sweaty hair and hooking his fingers gently around Jason's uninjured left hand. Alfred was holding the other one, ever careful not to put any pressure on the cast around the two broken fingers, his face as stoic and quiet as ever. That was not indifference though. It was practice.

Jason's first day in the manor had been relatively quiet, which Tim was very grateful for. It had given his body some chance at least to recover. Unfortunately, the calm had only lasted for little more than nineteen hours.

Alfred had been the one on guard duty when it had first happened and as much as Tim hated what it had done to him, he was grateful for that. He was fairly certain no one in their younger generation could have handled the matter quite as professionally. Back then, Jason had been the opposite of coherent. Normally that would have been a clear cut case for medicine-induced sedation, but the cocktail of chemicals in his blood was enough of a biological russian roulette already. The outburst, which had coincided with an increased reactivity of the fear toxin in his blood had lasted almost an hour. It had been the first of sixteen so far. This time, Alfred clocked it at thirty-two minutes and they had managed to identify a few words.

Please. Stop. Don't.

Jason was getting better, but he was far from okay.

"Go get some rest, Alfred." Dick's voice sounded almost as shot as Jason's. None of them enjoyed Jason's comatose fear gas nightmares, but Dick was undoubtedly the one who took them the hardest. Tim could not blame him. Not only was his little brother, whom he had already lost once, in terror and agony. The usual Dick Grayson method of fixing emotional problems - lots of hugs, chocolate and reassuring words - was not going to help this time. If Tim had to take a guess, he figured helplessness, the inability to save people from whatever crisis they were stuck in, was probably Dick's greatest fear. "It's my turn."

"Very well, Master Grayson."

They had already had the 'are you sure you don't want any assistance' argument twice. In the end, Alfred had relented with a few chosen words that made it clear that he was neither convinced nor pleased.

Bruce didn't need to know about any of this. About just how damaged Jason really was. About how slowly his condition improved. About the setbacks. He was already plenty worried. No way in hell was Tim going to give him more grief than he already did each time he uttered the word 'no".

"Go to bed, honey." Barb's hand was hot around his nearly frozen fingers, her voice a sturdy anchor in all the chaos. "You have classes tomorow."

"And you have Berkley's online library to reprogram and recategorize," Tim quipped as he watched Alfred drive the car through the gate to join Bruce. How he managed to deal with all the heartbreaking madness that was watching after Jason for six hours a day and then going back to Bruce and looking after him was anybody's guess. All Tim knew was that that man deserved a thousand medals.

Of course, Alfred's presence in the manor came with a few additional perks. Even though Tim had hired a proressional cleaning service to take care of the housework, one of Alfred's first actions had been to work the place over from the attic to the basement. The fridge, though nowhere near as sad and empty as Dick's, was now overflowing with fresh and healthy food and there was a neatly packaged portion of tonight's dinner waiting for him on the counter next to the microwave. Tim smiled as he heated it up and reached for the cutlery. He hadn't even realized how much he had missed Alfred's cooking.

Most importantly, though, Alfred had been there with an open ear and heartfelt advice for anyone who needed it. Dick had promptly made use of the opportunity, spilling his heart to the one person they had all missed equally, as well as answering all of Alfred's questions with as much detail as he could muster. Given how long it had been since they had last seen each other and how much had happened between then and now, Tim was not surprised that the conversation had gone on for almost six hours.

***

On the 21st, the magazines Alfred had mentioned finally arrived. The look of the courier as he handed over a stack of five-and-a-half years worth of four monthly journals was one of cold-blooded murder, but Tim couldn't have cared less. He dumped them on the kitchen table and skimmed one of each quickly.

Sketch Art's Finest was more pictures than text, which made perfect sense, as was Pioneering Engineering. It certainly explained where the many design sketches he had seen in Jason's room in the old manor had come from. Unfortunately, they did not exactly make for good reading material, but he could still file them away for later use. After all, both of Jason's legs would require at least six weeks to heal. He already dreaded the moment he would have to break those news to him.

That left The American Forensic Journal and Neuroscience Monthly, which really should have been named Psychology With A Dash Of Neurology Monthly. It was the implication more than the misnaming that made his stomach turn ever so slightly. He knew why Jason had been reading the AFJ. Bruce had told Tim to pick that one up during his first week as Robin, but NM? Maybe a case could have been made that learning how humans tick would be great for profiling suspects, yet he could not shake the thought that Jason had probably been trying to profile himself and the people closest to him just as much as the crooks. Jason, after all, had not trusted anyone, which only made the degree to which he had come to cooperate with the three of them even more astonishing. Tim made a mental note to thank and praise him for it when he woke up.

It would be another three days, another twenty-two fear-toxin-induced nightmares before he finally did.

***

Christmas Eve had been an absolutely lousy day until half past seven in the evening. Among the few escapees from Blackgate's max security wing had been none other than Edward Nigma. As astonishing as it was, the smug little narcissist had picked up to two groupies during his disastrous #CrusaderGate twitter campaign after Arkham City. Tim himself had had a devil of a time trolling Nigma with artfully constructed stealth insults hidden in supportive posts. He had never even considered the possibility that someone might actually have agreed with him in absolute sincerity.

But Deirde Vance, the woman who had worked with Julian Day and put up his Newvember banner at the Royal had. So had Nina Damfino, the bitch who had slapped Hatter's mind control hat on him back during Halloween. Now, Nigma called them Echo and Query and he had made good use of the four extra hands to booby-trap Gotham from Blackgate to Bleake. He was not looking forward to collecting five-thousand booby-trapped question marks.

"You know," he paused his reading of Neuroscience Monthly just long enough to give Jason a quick glance over the glossy paper, "I think Barb's the only one in the family who actually enjoyed collecting that crap. I think she's got some mild OCD there... coupled with severe perfectionism."

When his declaration was met with a low grunt, Tim nearly dropped his journal.

I've got to be imagening this...

Another small moan followed and Tim could have sworn he saw Jason's eyelids move. He put the magazine on the bedside table and focused on the machines they had connected him to. Jason's pulse was the steadiest it had been all week. He was still running a very high fever, but other than that, his vitals were almost normal for a change.

"Jason?" He took his good hand and squeezed slightly. "Jason, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand."

To his surprise, he could feel the cold fingers in between his hands move slightly. He made sure to repay the gesture with a quick pat. Below the unruly shock of coal black hair, Jason's eyelids fluttered open ever so slightly, revealing two unfocused chips of pale blue for just a second. A little lower, his lips were mouthing something, although no sound came and the movement was too slight for him to make out any words.

And then, just like that, the moment was gone.

Had he just imagined that? Was his brain, tired out from long nights of patrol, daytime classes and vigil combining his fatigue with the subconscious thought of just how unfair it was that Jay would spend the festive season unconscious, hooked up to a dozen machines, to create his own Christmas miracle?

According to the logs, he wasn't. He double- and triple-checked the numbers of the vitals monitor just to be sure. Jason had been awake. His heartbeat, his pulse, his breathing, his brain activity, all of it had accelerated just a little, but enough to indicate awareness. Jason had been awake.

Jason. Had. Been. Awake.

"Thank you, sweet Jesus!" Tim did not even try to suppress the laugh that wormed its way up his throat. The relief and happiness that flooded him were unreal. Jason had finally woken up. Not even five-thousand question marks could spoil that.

Barbara was the first one to hear the good news, since she had arrived half an hour early for her six hour shift. The smile that graced her lips at the new intel was one of the prettiest things Tim had ever seen. The fresh blood sample they took supported the most recent developments. Slowly, but effectively, his liver and kidneys were breaking down the toxins in his blood, flushing the poison from his body one grueling substance at a time. Now they only had to hope that his lungs - they had identified significant scarring on them that went well beyond normal damage from smoking - would be able to keep up.

The next one to hear of the positive developments was Dick, whom Tim contacted through the comms channel they normally used when on patrol with Red Hood. It took Tim four attempts to interrupt his joyful, celebrating rambling long enough to have a chance of explaining just how brief Jason's moment of consciousness had been and that there would be no point in returning to the manor before the beginning of his shift. Tim sincerely doubted that Jason was going to wake up sometime within the next twelve hours. When Dick finally relented, he could practically hear him pout across the comms.

Alfred received the news upon his arrival to the manor only two minutes later, with a relieved sigh and a warm smile. He promptly set out to include a pot of potato stew in tonight's dinner plans. The sentimental connection was not lost on Tim. Potato stew had been the first dish Jason had ever had at the manor. Given that they had been sustaining his body through an IV for a week now, it was also a good call for first food options.

Lucius answered Tim's call with the same warmth he always had for everyone in their little family and thanked him kindly for the update, before cutting the call short. Tim didn't blame him. Lucius had a family of his own and it was Christmas Eve after all.

That only left one more person to update and Tim's stomach turned to ice at the thought. Naturally, Alfred offered to do the honors for him, but Tim declined politely. This was not just going to be a simple status update.

It was about time somebody showed Bruce how to properly interact with people on an emotional level.

He found him in Burnley, disarming a rather complex trap set by Nigma that involved four electrical switches, a floor doused in acid and two cops who had been strung up in opposite corners of the room, making it nearly impossible to save both of them. As assured as Tim was that Batman would still be able to rescue both of them if he wanted to, there was no harm in lending a hand.

At least he had thought so, right up until they grappled onto the nearesest rooftop after saving their targets.

"I had it under control."

"Of course you did," Tim rolled his eyes under the domino mask. "You know, normal people would preface that with a 'thank you' or a 'hello' at least."

Predictably, the only thing he got in response was silence. There was that look in his eyes of course. Tim had seen it many times before, the intense stare that was stuck somewhere between irritation and annoyance, the closest Batman ever came to actually rolling his eyes. He knew that look and he knew what normally followed. His hand shot forward automatically, reaching for Bruce's shoulder and squeezing just hard enough to keep in place, but gently enough to let him know the gestures was free of any aggression.

"I didn't come here to argue, Batman. I have news about J." If Bruce had been planning to grapple off into the night, he wasn't anymore. His face remained unchanged, but Tim could tell from the way his body tensed that he had been hooked. "He woke up today. Only for a few seconds and he was too out of it to talk, but he woke up. I thought you might like to know." Seconds passed like hours. If he had not known any better, Tim might have thought time had stopped. After a count of ten, he could longer hold the sigh. "You know, this is the part where you are supposed to thank me for keeping you up to date."

Naturally, he did not. Tim was not sure if he was doing it simply out of spite for having been denied the chance to see Jason before or if he was just genuinely to proud to utter the words, but as Ghost grappled off to his next target, all Tim felt was the familiar, painful sense of disillusionment that was so common when dealing with Bruce.

They really needed Jason back to knock some sense into the bastard.

***

Christmas, as always, was a pain in the ass in Gotham and Bludhaven. Clearing the city of Riddler's death traps was like sweeping a mine field and even though Nightwing had finally found and apprehended White Swan, his joy was immediately dampened by the fact that Cobblepot had escaped en route from the destroyed Blackgate to the nearest federal prison. Part of him was morbidly happy ahout the fact that Julian Day was no longer around to wreak havoc.

And then there was Bruce...

Alfred had insisted on bringing the family together for Christmas Day dinner, even if it meant letting him into the manor, and Tim had not found it in his heart to turn him down. Alfred had just lost a sister after all, and was not getting any younger either. That plus the fact that they had already lost Jason once and had had to spend the last year separated probably only bolstered his belief that they should use the opportunity while it was still present. In the end, Tim and Barb had agreed on what could best be called a shaky truce: Bruce would be allowed to enter the manor, as long as he stuck to the ground floor and left right after dinner.

Of course, 'dinner' at Wayne Manor was served at eight in the morning, just past sunrise, and came with a hefty dose of painkillers for half its attendants. Technically, it was Boxing Day already. Alfred's food was sublime, as always, Barb had even found the time to put up some decorations (half of which had promptly been maimed by their lovably destructive cats) and Dick was doing his utmost to spread cheer around the table, but it still ended up feeling less like dinner and more like a standoff, with everyone waiting in tense anticipation to see who would shoot first. Despite seemingly being to occupied with his food and the conversation, Dick was watching Bruce like a mother hawk, as was Barb. Twice he tried to sneak off to the first floor. The first time, Dick and Barb were waiting for him, escrima sticks ready and the smiles wiped off their faces. The second time, Tim stopped him just shy of the stairs, but it wasn't until Alfred showed up behind him, his brow furrowed the slightest bit of displeasure, that Bruce finally relented and backed off.

It hurt having to do this to him, but it hurt even more knowing that Jason was upstairs in a bedroom all by himself. The only blessing was that he remained peacefully asleep throughout it all, at least according to the biometrics data Barb had synced to her smart watch. Only once Bruce had left the gated grounds of the manor and the security system lit up in bright green did any of them dare to relax.

Dick promptly disappeared up the stairs, which was not surprising given that eight to two was his usual shift, while Alfred returned to the kitchen to do the dishes and clean the table. When Tim arrived at Jason's room for the beginning of his own six hours, he wasn't surprised to watch Dick curl up on the couch at the other end of the room. He had insisted on remaining at the manor, in Jason's room and by his side, whenever he was not on patrol, so he could be there the next time Jason woke up and Tim had grudgingly provided him with the means to do so. He wasn't sure how Jason would react to waking up to an immediate Grayson hug, but he couldn't picture it being worse than having Dick go up the wall in worry each day.

"If he get's too cozy, you have my permission to sock him in the face," Tim explained as he sat down in the chair to the left of Jason's bed and picked up a new copy of Neuroscience Monthly, "but only with your left arm, please."

He was halfway through the magazine when all hell broke loose.

Tim was quite certain he would never get used to the way Jason went from deathly quiet to earth-shattering screaming and howling in pain, how his vitals went from unconscious low to insane high and his body temperature sky-rocketed from almost hypothermic to feverishly hot.

Dick was on his feet within a second, but it was Alfred who reached him first. Tim was not sure where he had come from so quickly, but he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Alfred was always the best at calming Jason down when the fear gas set in and Tim gladly stepped aside to let him work his magic, while holding on to Dick to keep him from rushing in. The look on his older brother's face nearly broke his heart.

"I would give an arm to switch places with him," Dick muttered bitterly, as he paced up and down in front of the couch. "An arm and a leg."

"I know." All Tim could do was shake his head as Barbara entered the room, her smart watch blinking furiously and her fresh-out-of-bed hair sticking up at odd angles around her saddened face. "We all would."

"It is alright, Master Todd," Alfred was as distressed as all of them, Tim knew, but he would never have guessed it from his voice alone. This was Alfred after all. The man was a rock in a stormy sea, even at the worst of times. Tim could count the times he had seen him in tears on his two hands and all of them had been anniversaries of deaths. Thomas and Martha Wayne. Jason. "It is alright, Master Todd. It is just a nightmare. You are save."

One of the butler's hands went to cup Jason's face, thumb brushing over the hideous brand mark Joker had left on his cheek, as if to wipe it away gently. The other curled around the uninjured fingers of Jason's left hand softly. His voice was a steady stream of murmurs and reassurances, spoken with the same warmth and affection, but none of the passion Dick would have mustered. Tim did not claim to know everything about how Jason ticked, but if he knew one thing, it was that Jason's own temper was only fanned even further by strong emotions. He did not need Dick's enthusiasm right now.

"It is alright, Master Todd," Alfred repeated for what seemed like the hundredth time. "You are home. You are save. Nothing can hurt you here. Not while we are around."

"Alfie..."

Tim froze. Next to him, Barb gasped loudly. Dick nearly stumbled over his own two feet and stubbed his toe on the nearby drawer instead, but if his face was anything to go by, the pain hadn't registered. His mouth was hanging open, his eyes were wide in shock. But God bless Alfred. It only took him a second to recover from the sudden sound coming from Jason's trembling lips.

"Yes, Master Todd. It is me."

For the longest time, there was no reaction and Tim was almost ready to call the entire thing a sleep-deprivation-induced hallucination when Jason's eyelids lifted slowly, just wide enough to reveal two dull spots of pale blue, flanked by what looked suspiciously like the glimmer of fresh tears.

"Alfie? Whatta you doin' in hell?"

Oh dear Lord... Tim could have sworn he felt the temperature in the room fall by four degrees at that. Dick's face warped into an expression of sheer horror and even Alfred bristled at the question. Tim had heard that fear toxin could cause strong hallucinations, but he did not even want to imagine what must have been going through Jason's head to make him think that he was dead and condemned.

"You are not in hell, Master Todd." Alfred's voice did not betray his own distress in the slightest. "You are very much alive. And so am I."

"Dreamin' then..." Jason's gaze went down to the curve of his elbow, first to his left, then to his right, where it came to rest on the IV going into his arm. "Hallu-- Hallunat-- Hallucin--"

"Oh God," the realization hit Tim with the force of an eighteen wheeler. "When we were talking down in that basement last Halloween he mentioned Joker used to pump him full of hallucinogens."

Alfred mulled that information over in his head for all of two seconds before disconnecting the IV and guiding Jason's chin gently with his hand until he was looking straight at him again.

"That was just an ordinary IV with a saline fluid containing parenteral nutrients and absolutely zero medication," Alfred assured him. "You were attacked by Killer Croc and dragged into the ruins of ACE Chemicals, where you were exposed to a number of dangerous, mutated chemicals, including Scarecrow's fear toxin. We have been attempting to nurse you back to health for more than a week now, but I can assure you: this is real. I am real. And I am very, very glad that you are still alive, Master Todd."

Tim was fully expecting Jason to deny the reality laid out before him, to reject the truth in favor of cautious pessimism. He thought back to his psychology classes at GCU. To the many hours he had spent talking to Doctor Brandt outside of that, needling the poor man with all kinds of questions that Introduction to PTSD and Related Disorders and Advanced PTSD did not cover. How had Doctor Brandt put it? Recovering from PTSD was like climbing the K2 after having been in a mountaineering accident.

Jason was very good at rejecting the idea of things getting better, because he knew just how quickly blissful happiness could turn into life-shattering pain and horror. He was deliberately denying himself the view from the top of the mountain, because he knew how much the fall would hurt and he excelled at rejecting the helping hands offered by his fellow climbers, because he was aware enough of his own demons to believe that he would only slow them down.

But few people ever managed to get to the top of the K2 and very few of those made it a by themselves. It wasn't a race either, but Tim doubted Jason was ready to accept any of that just yet. He was merely waiting for him to start panicking. He was prepared for the screaming, the thrashing, the desperate struggle.

"Sorry, Alfie..." He had not been ready for the soft murmur, the quiet tears and the choked breaths. "So sorry, Alfie. All my fault... Nev' meant to make... make you suffer. All my fault--"

"No, Master Todd." Alfred's voice was just as firm as Bruce's would have been, but with none of the underlying note of superiority, not a hint of a reprimand. "It is not your fault."

"Tis." Jason cut him off. His voice was shot, both from the many hours of fear-toxin-induced screaming and from the tears that were startig to stream down his face. Tim could tell from the way his eyes threatened to flutter shut each second and the sluggish movements of his fingers in Alfred's hand that he would not be awake for much longer. And he knew. Whatever it was he was trying to say, he was desperate to do it before exhaustion claimed him again. "Disabled tracker. Went after Joker on my own. All my fault."

"Seriously?" Dick barely managed to restrain himself as he glanced back and forth between his two brothers. "That is what this is about? That...that was years back!"

If Alfred had heard him, he paid him no heed. Instead, his gaze remained fixed firmly on Jason. "You made a mistake, Master Todd. A terrible mistake, which you already paid for a thousand times over." Alfred moved with the soft and methodical precision of a surgeon, but there was no mistaking the strength of his hold as he wrapped his arms gently around Jason, careful not to aggrevate any of his injuries, and ran one hand through his hair while the other stroked his back.

"I forgave you for that a long time ago. So did Master Bruce, Master Grayson and Miss Gordon. And I can assure you Master Drake does not think any less of you for it either."

"Alfie..." Slowly, Jason's arms moved to encircle Alfred's slender back. It couldn't have been a pleasant move, even without the IV in his vein, but Tim just knew that no force on heaven or earth could have stopped him from returning this simple gesture that probably meant the world to him. Soon, the tears were flowing freely, soaking through Alfred's suit jacket. He watched quietly as Dick edged forward slowly, each step a fight against the urge to rush and hug his brother and never let him go again. Instead, he ran a hand through Jason's tousled sweaty hair. Only when his brother didn't object to the touch did Dick circle his arm around him and lay his head against Jason's shoulder. Barb moved to the other side of the bed and mirrored the gesture on his right, as best as she could in her wheel chair. Tim waited until everyone had settled in before moving next to Alfred and sliding his fingers slowly over the hands resting against the butler's back.

For once, Jason didn't push any of them away, not even as his breathing evened out and became more shallow before he drifted back into the realm of sleep.

As far as Tim was concerned, they had just had their Christmas miracle.


	13. Striking Iron, Striking Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Jason wakes up, he's back in hell, but sometimes the best opportunities arise from the worst situations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back from vacation! Woohoo! No more typing on a phone. Halleluyah.
> 
> Also, I know this is not how Valentine's works, but I would like to take this opportunity to say this to all my readers (and reviewers):
> 
> You are all wonderful, awesome people and I love you all :)

Everything around him was dark. Dark and cold. He wasn't exactly sure where up and down was, how long he had been knocked out or if he even was knocked out. Maybe he was dead already. It wouldn't surprise Jason. His mind was usually more than happy to provide him with all the horrifying details of whatever trauma he had suffered, but right now there was nothing. His memory was a grey, murky soup and he was fishing for morsels of _something_ when he probably shouldn't.

He knew he shouldn't because it hurt.

Everything hurt. He didn't know whether it was his head, his torso or any of his limbs, but all of it hurt. And it wasn't the manageable sort of pain that came in sharp bursts and then receded either, although he felt like he had had some of that, too. No, this was the deep grind of something seriously, _seriously_ fucked up that eroded him from the inside out. Part of him hoped he was dead. If he was being honest, part of him had been hoping to die ever since the asylum and it had never stopped. He would be better off dead.

 _Don't even think about doing that to them_ , not-Robin admonished, and with 'them' he meant Barb, Dick and Tim of course. Possibly Bruce as well, but Jason didn't even want to think about him. He had a hard enough time telling himself that his brothers and sister cared. Bruce was an entirely different proposition though.

 _That's why you didn't join them at Blackgate_ , not-Robin explained. Jason wasn't sure where he had fished that memory from, but now he remembered. There had been a breakout. Cash had asked for all hands on deck. Oracle had confirmed that Batman was en route. Red Hood had decided to pass and do his own thing instead. Evidently, it had worked out absolutely stellar.

But hey, at least he remembered. Could dead people remember? Jason wasn't sure and before he had time to ponder the question any longer, a particularly vicious wave of pain pulled him back under.

***

His next session of awareness made him wish for a return of the dull darkness.

There were tiles all around him. Tiles upon tiles upon tiles and the fucking roof of what looked like one of the guest rooms in Wayne Manor. Everything was on fire. The tiles, the plasterwork, the floor and - most importantly - Jason himself. He screamed as the flames kindled in his lungs, charring them blacker than the tar he voluntarily forced into them on a daily basis and scorching him from the inside. Above him, Joker stood grinning, swinging the crowbar like a golf club and breaking both his ankles this time, before discarding it carelessly and digging straight into Jason's ribcage with those awful, relentless, bony spider fingers of his. Joker's bleached face was right on top of Jason's, a wide, blood-red grin with more teeth than the Osmond family that reeked of blood and rot and death.

Something was pinning down his right arm and Jason was too scared to look. He tried his free left instead, but all his ammo was gone. Not even a single flash bang left. He activated the tracker and communicator in his cowl - since when was he wearing a cowl? - and felt relieved beyond measure as both came online with light buzz. His voice sounded like he had gargled razorblades with vodka, but he had to try.

"Oracle! Robin! Nightwing! I need an exfil, now!"

Above his head, Joker howled with laughter. Or was that the Knight? _Oh god_ , it looked like Joker, but it sounded like both. "Really, Todders? You really think any of them care? You really think anyone is going to come and save your worthless ass?"

"They'll come for me!" He spat the words out like poison and gritted his teeth through the pain of having his rib cage dismantled.

_They'll come for me. They'll come. They’ll come. They’ll come..._

Minutes passed like hours, but nothing happened. His communicator was buzzing useless static, a noise that provided zero comfort against Joker's howling laughter. Behind the clown, Batman suddenly stood, ever vigilant, ever silent, ever unmoving.

_Help me, Bruce!!!_

He didn't want to beg, he really didn't, least of all with him, but his brothers were nowhere to be seen and Joker just kept on digging and digging and _digging_. He felt like Prometheus on that fucking rock. Surely there should be nothing left for Joker to take apart beneath Jason's ribs now, but his hands never stopped, just like before, the pain never stopped, just like before— "Bruce, please—“

"There is no place for killers in my family," Batman, Ghost, stated with an absolute certainty that shattered whatever hope he might have had left. "You turned off the tracker. You disobeyed my orders. You _killed_. You have no one to blame for this but yourself." With one last disappointed scowl, Batman turned to Joker. "Let me know when you are done so I can take him to Blackgate."

Jason watched in sheer horror as his last hope of escape turned and left. Joker grinned and shook his head. "See, that Todders? He's downright cooperative when he's dealing with me. I guess the problem is you then." The branding iron appeared out of nowhere, but Jason would have recognized its shape anywhere. His stomach turned at the painful memories and his scar was ablaze within a second. He could already smell the burning meat. "Let's make sure that everyone at Blackgate will know who you belong to, no matter which inch of you they are looking at..."

"Please stop! DON'T!!!" His tongue was like an oversized, acid-coated sponge in his mouth, nearly choking him with every word, but he had to try. As the iron came down again and again, his tracker was beeping away furiously, but there wasn't a single flash of blue or red on the horizon. This was all he had left.

All he could do was beg. All he could hope for was death.

***

He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when he decided that he must be dead already. It could have been the third time Joker finished branding him. It might have been the sixth. He had lost count after a while. He didn't know anymore how many times it had happened.

What he did know was that he was no longer alone.

The sound had been nothing more than white noise at first, distant buzzing in the darkness, in the flames. Eventually, he had grasped enough of it to know that it was voices. Even later, he had come to tell them apart.

There were four of them.

He liked the old one most. Most, not best. Alfred, the only tolerable grammar nazi Jason had ever met, had drilled that into him during his first month in the manor. The old voice was serious, but friendly, strong, but gentle, and reminded Jason of him in more ways than was comfortable, and yet he felt strangely happy about that.

The female voice was nice and pleasant, like light summer rain during sunrise, but her speech was oddly... stiff. As if she was reading from a script. One of the two young, male voices sounded almost the same, as if they were two sides of the same coin.

And then there was the fourth one, chirping away like a bird – high, bright, ever hopeful and far too damn cheery, yet somehow melodious, to the point where Jason could have sworn he had heard him sing every once in a while.

They might each have had their drawbacks, but he clung onto them like a drowning man to driftwood when the fire returned and with it Joker and Bruce. Whatever deity might have taken pity on him during his walk through hell, he wasn't going to turn it away when it was all he had. He clung to them in the fire and soon he could perceive them in the dark as well. They were even more present there.

He was in the darkness now. The previously unbearable, grinding pain somehow wasn't quite as bad today and he took the chance to listen more closely.

It was the methodical, young man speaking.

 _Speaking, not reading_ , Jason realized with a jolt. What had happened? Maybe this was something important and he was missing half of it! Straining to make out the words made his head hurt like someone had cracked it open with a pickaxe, but he had to try. Slowly, the words flowed through his ears into his skull where his battered brain tried to make sense of them.

"... think she's got some mild OCD there... coupled with severe perfectionism."

_Tim?!_

It couldn't be. His tracker had been active, he had made sure his trackers were in perfect working order, but they hadn't come. This couldn't be Tim. Unless of course this was some cruel afterlife joke where the only time his family cared about him was when he was dead. The thought instantly lit a blaze of fury inside him.

_Fuck you, phantom replacement._

The voice stopped immediately and Jason wanted to scoff at the sudden withdrawal. _Called your bluff, didn't I?_

"Jason?" There was pressure somewhere on his body. Surprisingly enough it hurt only very little. He wished he had any fucking idea which part it was. "Jason, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand."

 _Hand, huh?_ Alright. Hand. Fingers. He could do this. He tried to think back to his meditation lessons during his Robin training, learning how to isolate one limb at a time to ignore pain from clearly localized injuries. If the replacement really was holding hands, then that part of his body should feel slightly less icy. Searching for the spot made his head spin, but eventually he found it – the sensation of pressure where there had been none before, a hint of warmth in the ice box he felt confined to. He focused whatever strength he could muster into what was apparently his fingers and tried to move.

The pain hit him instantly and without any mercy. It felt as if someone had replaced his bones with razors, cutting him open from the inside at the slightest movement. Jason wanted to kick himself. Of course this had been a bad idea. Six fucking years and he still hadn’t learned a thing. Capture emergency procedures. The part where he saves your ass before lapsing into brooding silence and disappointed stares. Priority number one: avoid any more additional damage. He had done a lousy job of that back with Joker. He was still doing a lousy job of it now.

 _Go on then, Joker._ He was sure the clown was lurking somewhere. He always was. _Break out the crowbar and the branding iron and the fucking garbage bag and get talking. I’m used to it._

Instead, he got a gesture that was so alien to him it took his brain a good dozen seconds to interpret it in any way that made sense. Someone was patting his hand, gently, but with a certainty that clearly ruled out accidental contact. What was that supposed to be? A reward for fucking his hand up worse than it had been? Acknowledgement that the movement had registered?

 _Only one way to find out_ , not-Robin mused and before he, or Joker, or the Arkham Knight or anybody else could protest, Jason felt his eyelids lift slowly. At least he assumed those were his eyelids. The sharp pain was pretty damn close to his brain and it was followed by the even harsher, searing sensation of way too much light in this cold coffin he was in, yet he found himself blinking furiously through the blinding brightness to clear up the fuzzy shadow hovering above him.

The chiseled face looked eerily pale against the dark grey of what was probably a turtleneck sweater. From the dark shadows around the eyes, two orbs of viridian blue stared at him in what he could only interpret as worry mixed with a spark of hope. The thin lips of the mouth were pressed together tightly, only underlining the general appearance of fatigue. It looked like Tim. It had sounded like Tim. But it couldn’t possibly—

_Are you real?_

The words were coming to his lips before he had time to think better of it. The pain in his eyes immediately sprawled through the rest of his face. Finally, the primal instincts that had kept him alive through the years kicked in. He was out for the count again long before he had any chance at getting an answer.

***

His next visitor was Joker. The next one after that, the Arkham Knight. Jason wasn’t sure when _he_ had joined the party, but now that the Knight was here, it was as if he had never been gone. Jason howled in agony as the iron came down again and again and again. On his face. On his hands. On his chest. On every inch of his body. Joker was brutal, but the Arkham Knight was savage. He didn’t push the iron down – he slammed it into him with a rage and hate that had Jason wonder how he had ever managed to survive his three years between Joker and Scarecrow. Apparently, the Knight had found his perfect instrument of punishment. Jason had woken to the feeling of its searing edge on his skin and slipped back into momentary oblivion to the lingering, creeping sensation of its implications sprawling underneath his skin more times than he could have counted, even if he had bothered.

Perhaps that was his punishment for listening to the voices. Perhaps the Arkham Knight was really just a whiny little bitch, an attention whore extraordinaire, who couldn’t stand the idea of sharing Jason’s mind with anyone but Joker and Batman. Most people would have taken the hint, switched on their brain and surrendered. Instead, Jason found himself listening to the voices – almost always more frantic than usual whenever the fire came to claim him – with renewed intensity and spite. If he couldn’t hit the fucker, at the very least he could piss him off. If he was going to be in hell, at least they’d be in hell together. He just wished hell wasn’t as painful as it was this time.

“It is just a nightmare,” the old voice explained with a seemingly endless patience and Jason felt his body freeze at the sound. “You are safe.”

 _Like hell you are!_ Behind the blue mask, Jason knew a vile sneer was accompanying the angry words.   _But you know what they say: you should strike the iron while it’s hot!_

He closed his eyes in quiet resignation as the glowing J was raised high before being rammed down towards his burnt cheek, only to _feel_ the spark of his synapses at work as the realization hit him.

The Knight had noticed it, too.

The impact had never come. Could figments of his imaginations have figments of imagination? Could demons have demons? He wasn’t entirely sure. One thing was certain though: there was fear and anger flowing from every fiber of the Knight’s body as the iron came to a stop just above Jason’s cheek. Normally, it would still have burnt hot and bright, the heat radiating from the scorching metal. But it wasn’t. It was warm and soft and—

“It is alright, Master Todd.” The voice was loud and clear now, louder than any of them had ever been before. Only one person had ever called him that. “You are _home_. You are _safe_. Nothing can hurt you here. Not while _we_ are around.”

“Alfie?”

It couldn’t be. Alfred had gone dark together with Batman, yet when Jason had finally found Ghost and brought Bruce back into the fold, Alfred had not followed. He hadn’t contacted Jason. He hadn’t contacted Barb or Dick and Tim. If he had done so, Jason was at least fifty percent sure he would have heard of it at some point. But he hadn’t. And that could only mean one thing.

“Yes, Master Todd, it is me.”

The light falling into his eyes as he opened them slowly was just as cripplingly blind this time around. The Arkham Knight, previously sharply defined and absolute in his menacing form dissolved into oily shadows above him. It felt like he was under water. Through the wet wall between himself and wherever the damn light was coming from, Jason watched the shadow morph gradually, until he found himself confronted with the distantly familiar image of a black suit, and a pair of almost powdery blue eyes, set in a face that was both infinitely soft and yet full of strength, framed by grey hair. He would have known that face anywhere, but he hadn’t contacted any of them, even though there was no more need to hide from them. And that could only mean one thing.

Alfred was dead.

The thought made him sad and furious all at once. This wasn’t fair. Not Alfred. _Not Alfie, of all people, goddammit!_ Hell, he would have gladly spent the rest of his nightmarish afterlife staring at Bruce’s awful scowl or Joker’s hideous grin. God knew they all deserved to be here, but Alfie...

“Alfie? Watta you doin’ in hell?”

“You are not in hell, Master Todd.” If Alfred was appalled by his lack of manners, he didn’t show it. He never did. Because Alfred never scorned and never chided. Not when there was still an unanswered question in the room, or – heaven forbid – a hungry stomach to be fed. Provide, remediate, support. Alfred’s behavioral patterns were as simple and predictable as they were precious and admirable. “You are very much alive and so am I.”

 _Wouldn’t that be glorious..._ The sound of utmost sincerity in the soothing voice drove a thousand needles into his heart. He wanted to believe it. He really did, but he knew where it would lead. He _knew_. He had been there. He remembered. The feeling of hope swelling in his chest. The feeling as it was crushed and trampled and the tiled darkness filled with grating laughter closed in again. He wasn’t going to fall for it. Not again.

 _This is Alfred_ , not-Robin chided him with a kind of insulted anger Jason hadn’t known he was capable of. _Alfred would never lie to you, or betray you like that._

“Dreamin’ then...” Okay, maybe he wasn’t dead yet. That didn’t mean everything was roses, sunshine and kisses. For the first time in too long a time, Jason could feel his head move without agony incapacitating him. He looked to his left arm, where Alfred was sitting first, then to his right. The sight that greeted him nearly brought a ‘I told you so’ smile to his lips. That was unmistakably a needle in his arm. “Hallu—“ What the fuck was that word? It still felt like his brain was shrouded in heavy fog and his tongue filled up with lead. “Hallunat—Hallucin—“ It was something along those lines. He could pretty much taste the word on his tongue. He was just about ready to try again when two deft hands reached forward and disconnected the tubes, removed the needle from his vein and taped off the affected area before guiding his chin back to the left.

"That was just an ordinary IV with a saline fluid containing parenteral nutrients and absolutely zero medication," Alfred assured him. "You were attacked by Killer Croc and dragged into the ruins of ACE Chemicals, where you were exposed to a number of dangerous, mutated chemicals, including Scarecrow's fear toxin. We have been attempting to nurse you back to health for more than a week now, but I can assure you: this is real. I am real. And I am very, very glad that you are still alive, Master Todd."

 _Really?_ The words bounced around his skull with utmost clarity. It had looked like an IV, alright. His brain felt like a miniature furnace in his head as it tried to recover the memories. He had refused to go to Blackgate. Where had he gone next? _Open cases_ , Jason chided himself, _think of your open cases._

Croc. The Deirdre Vance connection. The Halloween poisoning. Silenzio.

Silenzio. Sophia Babiloni. He had cornered her. He had killed her. He had offered her to live, but in the end, he had shot her. That was all that was going to matter in the end. For the first time since he had been dragged from beneath the hot iron, he wondered where the hell Bruce was. If, by some amazing miracle, this really was real and Alfred really was here, then Bruce would not be far and Bruce, Batman, would not let it slide, no matter what. In Bruce’s eyes, the only place for someone like him was Arkham. Or Blackgate. Or anywhere else far, far away from his real family.

If, by some miracle, he really had Alfred in front of him, he would have minutes with him at best.

 _It’s not fair!_ The thought made his throat tighten and his eyes burn. It wasn’t fucking fair! Six years and this was all he was going to get? A couple of seconds, maybe a minute at best?! There were so many things he wanted to say to him... so many things he had taken for granted, never spoken, never done, but he shouldn’t, and now he wouldn’t get the chance, the time—Barb had said Alfred was still missing him. After six fucking years he wouldn’t even—

 _Prioritize_ , not-Robin cut through his rambling thoughts like a hot knife through butter. _Prioritize. One bite at a time. One step at a time. Alfred taught you. You can do this._

“Sorry, Alfie...” Prioritize. First things first. After all the time and sweat and tears that Alfred had put into taking care of him, anything other than an apology for all the mess he had caused would have been an insult. He could only hope that he would have enough time. The thought made his already shot vocal cords constrict painfully. “So sorry, Alfie. All my fault... Nev' meant to make... make you suffer. All my fault—“

“No, Master Todd.” Of course Alfred refused to be put first. He always did. You could dangle the man over the edge of death and his first thought would still be the masters of the house. “It is not your fault—“

“Tis.” It was rude cutting him off, but they didn’t have time for this. Not while they were here. He recognized the décor now, the plasterwork on the ceiling, the coloring of the walls. They were in the manor. Bruce would be here any second. He hoped Alfred would forgive him for this lapse of manners at least. He had no choice. Not with Bruce right around the corner. Not with sleep and all its inherent horrors threatening to pull him back under. He could already hear the Knight’s derisive remarks in his ears, could already feel Joker’s fingers sliding over his shoulders, his arms, his back, looking for a new spot to hurt, to ruin. If he couldn’t do anything else right, at least he had to set things straight with Alfred. “Disabled tracker. Went after Joker on my own. All my fault.”

“You made a mistake, Master Todd. A terrible mistake, which you already paid for a thousand times over.” There was not a hint of blame, not a dash of anger to Alfred’s voice and yet Jason could feel it cut sharper through his skin than any blade or any word that had ever been flung at him. Alfred’s eyes, soft and empathetic as they always were, had fixated on him with a single-minded intensity that left no room for arguing. He knew that stare. It was the look Alfred reserved for the worst of days, for those times when he wanted to make it clear that no force on heaven or earth would be able to sway him from whatever he had in mind for the frighteningly self-destructive people in his care. One of his hands moved into Jason’s hair, cupping the back of his head gently, but with a grip stronger than one would ever imagine from a man who looked so frail, while the other stroked his back, slowly, pressing their two bodies closer together by the second. He could feel the muscles of Alfred’s jaw move gently against his cheek as he continued. “I forgave you for that a long time ago. So did Master Bruce, Master Grayson and Miss Gordon. And I can assure you Master Drake does not think any less of you for it either.”

 _I forgave you for that a long time ago._ The words echoed in his skull, drilling deeper and deeper into his mind and soul. _I forgave you._ From anybody else, Jason might have called it a lie, but Alfred... Alfie never lied. Alfie never hurt.

“Alfie...”

His arms screamed bloody murder as he moved them, but somehow it didn’t matter. They moved almost automatically, circling around the butler’s back and clutching onto the soft fabric of his suit for dear life. _I forgave you._ The tears came unbidden, but for once Jason didn’t even want to stop them. He could count the times crying had ever felt good on one hand and this was one of them. As he closed his eyes and buried his face against Alfred’s shoulder, the deep breath he hadn’t known he had been holding finally escaped from his throat. It didn’t feel like air coming from his lungs, nor like tears coming from his eyes. It felt like poison, like blackness and the chill of the asylum, being leeched from somewhere much deeper inside him. Whatever were to happen now, he would always have this. This moment with Alfred. This single moment frozen in time. This moment without the Knight’s scorn and Joker’s laugh and Bruce’s scowl. This moment without pain, without fear.

It was the feeling of another hand running through his hair that finally broke the moment ever so slightly. His first instinct was to lash out, to attack and retreat back to safety, but then again... he was safe, already. This was Alfred he was clinging onto and Alfred didn’t seem to mind. Whoever it was, if Alfred didn’t set out to remove them, then he had nothing to fear. The warmth that curled against his left side just a few seconds later felt like a human furnace. _Dick_ , Jason realized with a pang of surprise. There was only one person he knew who radiated that much heat at any given time and it was his older brother. Soon enough, the gesture was mirrored on his right and a quick, sleepy glance at the purple infinity tattoo on the slender arm circling Alfred’s back left no room for doubt. _Barb._ He could feel another set of hands, sliding carefully against his icy fingers. That sensation was familiar, too, although much more recent. _Tim._

_They’ve come for me. They’ve come for me after all._

***

The darkness had come for him again, eventually, as had the cold, but he had faced it with an indifference he hadn’t been able to muster in years. Maybe it had been real. Maybe it had been a dream. Whatever it had been, the memory was etched deep into his sub-consciousness, lingering in every fiber of his body, even as he floated through the infinite night, and he took comfort in that.

That, and the voice that continued floating through the blackness, like a thread of silver moonlight on a clear night.

The voice had returned, but Joker and the Knight had not. They had tried. He had been able to hear that garbled voice in the distance, feel those long, white fingers reaching out, more than once, but they had never touched him again. He had been following the voices, even though Jason was pretty sure that he wasn’t technically going anywhere. At best, he was lying hooked up to an IV in the manor. At worst, he was really dead and this was the new and improved version of his afterlife. It wasn’t paradise, but after all the crap that had been his life, he wasn’t going to be picky.

The voice had gotten stronger recently. ‘Recently’ being a pretty malleable term in this instance. He wasn’t sure if it had taken seconds, minutes or hours, but the voice was loud enough for him to hear the words now and identify their speaker. Something about life being short, having power but feeling like the world was too heavy to even move and trying to do what would please somebody else.

Yeah, either he was dead and Dick was busy writing his post-mortem biography, or his older brother had a twisted sense of bedside humor.

“Jason?”

He wasn’t sure what had given away his slow transition from delirious sleep to somewhat consciousness, but the narration stopped. There was hope and joy in that single word and even before he managed to pry open his eyes, Jason just knew that he would be waking up to one of those disgusting million-watts grins. _Fun-fucking-tastic._

“Jason, can you hear me?”

“Way too loud and clearly!” His throat felt like he had tried to gargle razor blades dry, but the pain was negligible compared to the pounding in his ears as Dick’s bright voice burst through them. He made the mistake of trying to move his eyelids next and was greeted by more blinding light. “Fucking lights...”

That earned him a slight chuckle, thankfully at an acceptable volume. His world slid into focus slowly, but steadily. True to his prediction, the first thing he saw was a proper Grayson smile. It made Dick look much younger than he was and Jason scoffed at the gesture on principle before taking a cursory glance around the room as best as he could.

Unless his mind was playing a sick joke on him, he really was lying in a bed in one of the guest rooms of the manor. _Drake Manor, not Wayne Manor_ , not-Robin reminded him quickly. Not that anybody would have been able to tell the difference. Tim had obviously gone through great pains to make everything as authentic as possible, from the carpet to the drapes, from the plasterwork to the furniture. The deep blue curtains were drawn almost completely, letting in the barest slither of sunlight. To Jason’s surprise, it was the only source of light in the room. He wouldn’t be surprised if Dick had not been yelling, but talking at normal volume after all. Clearly his senses were not to be trusted right now.

“Sorry I didn’t account enough for light sensitivity,” Dick murmured as if he had read his mind. “You’ve been... out of it... for quite a while. I should have known.”

“Quite a while?” He tried to raise an eyebrow at that, but his muscle coordination was shot. Even just moving his head from left to right felt like trying to move a broken down car. Everything else in his body hurt too much to even think about. His rib cage felt like hell, his ankles like hell re-heated. “How long?”

“Not that impor—“

“Dickie, how long?” He wasn’t in the mood for any of this bullshit. Who knew how long he would be conscious? He could already feel sleep stretching out its tendrils to drag him back under, but there were so many things he needed to know first... He watched Dick teeter back and forth on the chair next to the bed, his legs once more tangled in what would have likely been a very painful position for any normal human being, and his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

“Ten days now. It’s December 28th.”

 _Ten fucking days_... Jason let that sink in for a while. Ten days were no joke, particularly for someone like him, who was usually up and about at the first noise or movement in a three feet radius. Then again, if Alfred had said the truth—“Alfred...” He had to swallow twice to get the lump that was his dry tongue into a position where he could actually speak comfortably. “I dreamed Alfred was here.”

“That wasn’t a dream,” Dick corrected quickly and the smile was gone in a second. “We’ve been taking turns watching over you. Tim, Barb, Alfie and me.”

“Bruce gotta be pissed.”

“Bruce is not here.” Whatever warmth had been in Dick’s voice was gone in an instant. If he hadn’t known better, Jason could have sworn he had seen his face darken, too. Jason scowled at the obvious lie.

“Yeah, right... you honestly expect me to believe that he isn’t waiting just outside that door? Or the window?”

“He isn’t. Not for lack of trying, though.” The confusion must have shown on his face, because Dick let out a deep sigh that he usually reserved for conversations that started with ‘long story short’.

“Long story short,” it took Jason everything he had to suppress the chuckle that threatened to creep out of his throat. It came out as a rusty cough instead that sent everything between his ribs howling in pain. “You said you didn’t want him anywhere near you. After all the crap he pulled since last year’s Halloween – faking his death, aggravating your injuries, not even telling Alfred that he was in contact with all of us again – after all of that, we didn’t want him anywhere near you either. Not until you’re ready for it. So... we’ve been keeping him away from the manor.”

“Why?” Jason wasn’t surprised to watch Dick get up and retrieve a fresh bottle of water, two glasses and a straw from a nearby dressing table. His voice _did_ sound like he was about to croak.

“Because we care about you, Jason.” Dick poured both glasses quickly and downed his own without hesitation before putting the straw in the other and bringing it within Jason’s reach. As much as he wanted to turn him down, his throat lit up like a box of matches at the sight of water so close to his mouth. The first gulp went down in a blaze of pain. The second and third nearly made him cry for joy. Never before had two shots of water felt that good. Against his better judgment, he downed the rest and didn’t protest when Dick refilled his glass. “I know you probably don’t believe it. And that’s okay. You don’t have to pretend that everything is alright when it’s not, but you are in pretty bad shape right now, so please just let us help you. Okay?”

“Whatever.” He wanted to argue, but he knew it wasn’t going to end well. He could tell from the grinding pain in his torso and his ankle that he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. “So, I really did get dragged into ACE and mauled by a giant crocodile?” _Fantastic._ Part of him didn’t even want to know how much damage he had taken from that. The rest of him knew that he had to know, particularly if he ever wanted to get out of this place again. Preferably any time soon. “How bad is it?”

“Not too bad.” Dick tried the innocent puppy dog eyes on him, only to get an eye-roll in return.

“You’re a terrible liar off-duty, Goldie. How bad?”

That got him a deep sigh. “Broken tibia on the left, broken fibula and tibia on the right. That one needed surgery. Fractures in all three phalanges of your right middle finger, and proximal and middle phalange of your right ring finger. Three fractured ribs on the left side. Croc took a junk of muscle out of there, too, and you’re lucky he didn’t nick any organs. Nasty cut on right side that just missed your liver. Lots of comparatively shallow cuts all over your stomach and chest. Concussion and a really bad case of chemical poisoning.”

“Fear gas.”

“And about half a dozen mutated things that aren’t in any chemical or medical database we have access to, which is why we couldn’t give you any medication without risking cardiac arrest and other horrible side effects.”

“Joy.” He probably should have said more, given that Dick’s voice had gained steam like a locomotive as the list had gone on, but what was there to say? The fear gas explained the nightmares, the chemical cocktail explained the rest. Whatever plans he had had for getting out of bed had been axed from the very first sentence. _Two broken tibias and three broken ribs..._ He was not going anywhere anytime soon, except maybe in a wheel chair. The thought of being stuck so helpless, so vulnerable, was terrifying in and of itself and he quickly pushed it back into the depths it had come from. Judging from the pained look on Dick’s face, his feeling of being a trapped rat was rather obvious.

“I’m sorry, Jaybird. I wish I could give you some painkillers at least—“

“I wouldn’t want them, even if you could.” It was the truth. He could take pain. If fifteen months with the Joker had been worth anything, if any good had come of that, it was that he had learned to manage or at least ignore almost any kind of pain. Somehow, he had a feeling offering that explanation would not go over well. “Won’t need them, anyway. Barely feel anything as long as I’m lying still.” That was only half a life. It still hurt, but the pain was nothing in comparison to the feeling of utter helplessness, of being caged in, stuck and trapped no matter what for at least four weeks. He didn’t even want to think of it. That, and the cold that still lingered in every single inch of his body. A shudder rolled over him as his mind focused on the sensation, even if only for a few seconds. His acknowledgement of the issue had brought the feeling of being submerged in ice water back with a vengeance and he clenched his teeth shut against the shivers.

For once, Dick Grayson remained completely silent. Jason watched on quietly as he went over to the thermostat and cranked it up to maximum power before retrieving what looked like the manor’s fluffiest comforter from the walk-in-closet on the right side of the room. Only once he had finished draping it over him did Dick sit back down again and spare him another glance. “Figured we would need that one sooner or later. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Was there? He doubted it. The nagging feeling of fatigue, previously irritating but manageable, had decided to return with a vengeance and it took him all he had to just keep his eyes open and his mind focused on anything but the parts of his body that were screaming bloody murder. He had been trying to avoid Dick’s questioning look more than anything else when he caught sight of the book on the table, next to the water bottle.

“Whose idea was the reading?”

“Mine.” More fidgeting. More teetering. “I remember what you told me when we took down those guys at Whaler’s Arch. Figured if there was even the chance that we could give you something other than fear-gas-induced nightmares to focus on, we should take it.” All of a sudden, Dick Grayson looked both infinitely small and ghostly pale. “Jason... I don’t know what Scarecrow’s toxin made you see, but you were screaming your lungs out for several hours a day. Did it help? The reading, I mean. Did it help at all?”

There were so many things he wanted to say to that, starting with ‘wait, did you tell the others about Whaler’s Arch’ and ‘what exactly do you mean by _screaming_ ’. In the end, the only thing he managed to say against the ever-increasing lull of fatigue was “it did.” The smile on Dick’s face was brief, but much more genuine than any of the sunshine smiles he usually showed around people. This was the real Dick Grayson.

“Do you want me to go on reading?”

“Yes.” It wouldn’t make much of a difference, he could tell that much. He was already half gone. The room was already closing in and the light from the window was fading to what was probably its actual brightness. If Dick wanted to ruin his eyes by reading in the half-dark, he was welcome to it.  At the very least, it would spare Jason more sappy questions. Soon enough, Dick was perched on the chair again, legs in a tangle, book spread open in his lap, and he started reading.

_“’The others have gone,’ she said. ‘They are scattered to the woods they came from, no two together, and men will not catch sight of them much more easily than if they were still in the sea. I will go back to my forest too, but I do not know if I will live contentedly there, or anywhere. I have been mortal, and some part of me is mortal yet. I am full of tears and hunger and the fear of death, though I cannot weep, and I want nothing, and I cannot die. I am not like the others now, for no unicorn was ever born who could regret, but I do. I regret.’"_

“I’m no unicorn.” He wasn’t sure what madness had possessed him to actually voice that thought out loud, but it drew a clear bout of laughter from Dick that echoed through the corners of the room. It was the happiest sound Jason had heard out of anyone in a long, long time.

“Only in terms of rarity of sightings, Little Wing,” Dick smirked into his copy of Beagle’s novel. “No pun intended.”

Jason scoffed at that. “Brony.”

“I love you, too, Little Wing.”

With a quick smirk, Dick went back to his reading. _Little Wing..._ Despite the little jabs and the nagging feeling that Dick really had been picking his literature very deliberately, Jason found it hard to stay angry with him. Not when his battered body was desperately urging him to close his eyes and get some fucking rest. Not when Dick’s voice was made for story-telling. Jason had never noticed it before – and how would he – this was the first time in his life he could ever remember someone reading to him – but somehow Dick’s voice had that melodious undertone to it that just lent itself to tales of magic and adventure. His circus training had probably done the rest, providing him with the right sense for timing and intensity to truly make a story come to life. At last, Jason surrendered to the desperate call of sleep that had been begging to drag him under. He could feel his consciousness slip slowly into the dark, together with Dick’s voice.

_“But she answered him gently, saying, ‘My people are in the world again. No sorrow will live in me as long as that joy — save one, and I thank you for that, too. Farewell, good magician. I will try to go home.’”_


	14. Survival Of The Fittest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the year draws to its end, Jason tries to recover from his injuries and move on as best as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of research done for this chapter about recovery times and treatments for various injuries. If someone were to judge me on my google search history only, they'd probably think I was in ICU right now o_o

In his dream, Croc was towering above him, a grotesque mess of green scales, razor-sharp teeth and menacing, blood-coated fangs. The blood was his own, Jason knew, and not only because his stomach was a raging pit of fire that betrayed the damage Jones had done. He also knew it because he remembered. It had taken him god only knew how many nightmares and two waking conversations – one with Alfred and one with Dick – to do it, but now he remembered. It was no longer Joker towering over him, nor the Arkham Knight, because that’s not how it had happened. It was Croc, and his face wasn’t perfect bleached porcelain white nor was it a blue mask – it was a burnt collage of broken bones, chipped scales and the occasional shard of bright red, courtesy of the self-destruct embedded in Red Hood’s helmet. Dick would throw a fit if he ever were to find out that that even was a thing, but then again, Jason had taken every precaution to avoid accidents. After all, how likely was he to involuntarily utter the words ‘I wish Joker was still alive’?

No, this was not reality, at least not anymore. It was a dream of the past, of an ordeal that was long over. He took comfort in that, and even more in the fact that he knew, he _knew_ beyond a bat’s shadow of a doubt, that the backup tracker in his waistband had come online as soon as the hood had gone offline, and that it was now humming away furiously, broadcasting a signal strong enough to cover all of Gotham and Blüdhaven on any and all frequencies used by his fellow vigilantes, Nightwing, Robin and Oracle. Dick, Tim and Barb. For once, Jason felt no fear as the thing that was now more beast than man, no longer capable of human speech, descended onto him with a hungry growl. He knew how this was going to end. The ceiling rumbled above him and even though there was barely enough light to make out his aggressor and even though the rubble hit him hard enough to make his vision swim and drag him under, he didn’t miss it this time.

There was no mistaking the flashes of red and blue descending from the debris. His brothers had come for him. They had actually come for him.

How they had gotten him to the manor, he did not remember, but that was probably for the best. He had felt like crap when he had lost consciousness at ACE and he had felt even worse when he had woken up, and even though some of the pain, particularly the slow, searing grind that seemed to course through every vein of his body, had lessened bit by bit, he was too much of a realist to delude himself into thinking that everything was alright. The female voice – _Barb_ , Jason realized with a sudden pang, as if there had ever been any other candidate – confirmed his suspicions.

“Well, we’re down to only two unknown hazardous substances instead of seven, but I still wouldn’t want to risk medicating him.”

“Sadly, I agree,” the old voice answered. _Alfred_ , Jason reminded himself and, fuck, it felt good knowing that Alfie of all people was here now that he would wake up. No offense to Dick and the others, but he could see them any time he wanted. Alfie, was an entirely different—

_I could see them any time I wanted._

He mulled that thought over in his head. How long had it been since he had been able to say that about anyone he even remotely cared about? The answer was ‘years’, of course, but it had felt like so, so much longer. The idea was strangely comforting and pleasant. He didn’t have to see them. Didn’t even have to talk to them. But he could. If he wanted to. Any time. The choice was his.

 _Well, right now, you DON’T actually have a choice_ , not-Robin corrected. _You’re stuck in a bed with two broken legs, remember?_

“Oh, fuck you...”

“Ah, and there is the colorful vocabulary I remember so fondly...” The hint of a smile that swung underneath the wistful words was greeted with a loud, bright laugh from Tim.

“You should hear him on a bad night on patrol! Very educational, if you want to learn how to curse fluently in half a dozen Latin-American Spanish dialects.”

Jason wanted to scoff at that, but his throat felt like someone had stuffed it with sandpaper. Even those three little words had been agony. He would have a few choice words for his replacement when he was up and running again. In more than just six dialects. He had just about resigned himself to keeping his mouth shut for now and focusing on his eyes instead when something hot and excruciating exploded in his left flank, where previously there had only been the uncomfortable, dull chill of ice. The sensation was so sudden he couldn’t stop himself from screaming at the top of his scarred lungs that promptly lit up like a furnace. Just as fast, someone was pinning his legs to the mattress, and his arms and torso to the firm pillow he was propped up against. His first instinct was to fight back, but the gentle pat of a hand on his head stopped him. He could feel fingers running through his hair – far too long, he would definitely need a cut sometime soon – accompanied by quick murmurs in that steady, soothing voice that Alfred made seem so natural.

“Hush, Master Todd. It is alright. We are nearly done. Nearly done.”

 _Nearly done with what? Dismantling my rib cage?_ At last, his eyelids obeyed and he immediately did a quick scan to assess his situation.

He was still in the manor, if the plasterwork on the ceiling was anything to go by. The curtains were open, but it was night outside. The main light on the ceiling was on, but dimmed, no doubt a quick adjustment following his last conversation with Dick. At the foot of his bed, Tim sat dressed in full Robin gear, holding down both his feet just above the upper end of the casts, right below Jason’s knee. To his right, Barbara had pinned down his wrist with her right hand, careful not to disturb the IV that was once more in his arm. The sight of the needle made him shudder, so he moved on quickly. Her left arm was lying stretched across his chest, not pushing, but not giving way either. Judging from how many bandages he was covered in, she was probably trying to avoid putting pressure on whatever damage he had sustained there. He was practically covered in the damn things, with one notable exception.

The wound in his left side was raw and gaping, even in the dim light of the room. He was faintly aware that there was a flashlight lying right next to his hip, which they had probably used to illuminate the spot as they went to work. And ‘work’, if the state of his left side was anything to go by, had apparently involved removing a disturbing amount of gauze from the _hole_ , the _freaking_ _hole_ , just beneath his ribs. Dick had mentioned that Croc had taken a bite out of him that had barely missed Jason’s organs, but hearing about it and seeing it for real were two different things. It took him every ounce of concentration and a fair amount of dry swallowing to keep from throwing up all over himself right then and there.

“I am so sorry, Master Todd.” The hand in his hair moved again and he followed the length of the arm attached to it until his eyes fell on the very worried, but nonetheless panic-free face of Alfred Pennyworth. That man deserved a medal. All the medals actually. “We had been hoping to be done re-dressing your wound before you were to wake up, but it seems your times of days-long sleep are over.”

“How long?” His voice came out as barely more than a croaked whisper, but he needed to know. “How long since the last time?”

“Fourteen hours,” Alfred replied, while intensifying the hold Jason hadn’t realized he had had on his uninjured left hand. “It has been fourteen hours now since your conversation with Master Grayson. And it is midnight on the 28th of December, if you wish to know.”

He hadn’t. As a matter of fact, Jason desperately willed his mind not to pay attention to the fact that it was so close to Christmas. The scar on his face was already on fire once more.

“With your permission,” Alfred continued, “I would like to finish cleaning out and re-dressing that wound. It will hurt tremendously, but it needs to be done lest you want to risk a nasty infection.”

He didn’t. With a weak nod, Jason forced his attention back to the stupid plasterwork on the fucking ceiling. Short of Joker coming back from the grave, or Bruce dropping from the rafters, an infected wound so close to half a dozen vital organs was pretty much the last thing he needed. He accepted the gag Barbara shoved into his mouth without protest. It would beat biting off his own tongue by a mile. Sure enough, as the sharp sting of disinfectant seared through his left side, his teeth came down hard. The prodding and probing that followed as Alfred filled the wound up with fresh gauze did not make it better. For the first time in a very long time, Jason was actually glad for a pack of ice being put on any part of his body. He watched Alfred discard the now bloody rubber gloves he had been wearing, but it wasn’t until his breathing had returned to a somewhat normal rate that Barbara and Tim let go of him again.

“I’m sorry we had to do that, Jason,” Barb said with utmost sincerity as she removed the gag once more. “But I’m afraid we’re gonna have to keep on putting you through this until that wound stops acting up.”

“I’ve had worse.” He really had. The pain, terrible as it had been, was already starting to fade back to the level of a moderate annoyance. The last time someone other than Jason himself had treated his broken bones and open wounds, they would have used absinth for disinfectant and followed it up with more deliberate torture. This was a piece of cake. “I’ve had much worse...”

“Doesn’t mean you have to—“ Whatever Tim had been meaning to say was cut short as his communicator started beeping furiously. With a quick tap to the cowl, Robin switched back into on-duty mode. Judging from the way his face darkened, it wasn’t good news. “Trouble at Grand Avenue. Cash wants all hands on deck.”

“Better hurry then, _pinche pendejo_.” Outside of the literal meaning, there was no malice in the words. Jason wasn’t sure if he could have mustered some even if he wanted to. His throat still felt too raw, his vocal cords too tired. One half of him was utterly grateful that Tim took the hint with a quick acknowledging goodbye before he disappeared through the door. The rest of him felt strangely bereft and uneasy. It was ridiculous. They all had lives and Tim had a very important job to do, one that was most likely no easier now that Red Hood was not there to pull his share. It was childish and stupid of him to feel ... anything, really, at his departure.

“I should probably go downstairs and get to work, too,” Barb mentioned with a hint of regret in her voice. “God knows these guys wouldn’t last a night without their tech support.”

“You’re more than tech support, Babs.” He wasn’t sure why he had said that or even what he wanted to follow it up with, but it was the truth. Barbara was as much ‘just tech support’ as Alfred was ‘just a butler’ and it was high time that someone told her. The smile Barbara gave him in return made his stomach turn into a painful knot. Was he supposed to follow this up with something? Wasn’t it her turn? He hated those silences. With a quick gulp, Jason turned to Alfred instead. “Are you heading downstairs, too, Alfie?”

_Please say ‘no’. Please say ‘no’. Please say ‘no’. Please say ‘no’._

“Only for a minute, Master Todd.” The relief that flooded him at the words was downright pathetic. “Rest assured, one of us will always be here, and for the next six hours that someone is going to be me.”

 _Six hours._ Six hours with Alfred. It was too good to be true. He couldn’t remember the last time he had spent six uninterrupted hours with him. He wasn’t sure if he had ever had. _Maybe I’m still dreaming_. It would be a perfectly logical explanation, even though it was highly unlikely. He hadn’t had a good, positive dream in years. While Barb put away her copy of what looked suspiciously like the American Forensic Journal and headed for the door, Alfred quickly gathered up the soiled bandages and gauze they had been prying from his rib cage earlier. Jason couldn’t help but wince at just how much of it there was. His injury must have been more serious than he thought.

The door closed behind Alfred with a quiet thud, leaving him alone in the silence and dim light of the bedroom. Despite the chamber being huge, as all rooms in the manor tended to be, Jason had a feeling like the walls were closing in on him rapidly. _Only a minute_ , not-Robin reminded him. He _will only be gone for a minute_.

A minute could be a long time though, Jason knew. A minute was more than enough time to break into someone’s house and wreak all kinds of havoc. It was enough for theft. It was enough for murder. If you did it right, it was even enough for a kidnapping.

And if you happened to be a bat, then god help the poor fucker who’d be stuck in bed, completely helpless. His gaze fell upon the window almost automatically, while his left hand searched for anything really to defend himself with. The only thing he had within reach was the damn flashlight and he pointed it at the glass quickly. There was a thick flurry of snow outside, from what he could see. Perfect conditions for concealing someone’s approach.

“Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four...”

***

He had reached a count of seventy-three by the time the door opened again, revealing Alfred, poised and graceful as ever, with a silver tray in his hand. The window had remained undisturbed, but he couldn’t take his eyes off it, even as the old butler made his way across the room to the chair by Jason’s left side.

“Rest assured, Master Todd, he is nowhere near the manor right now. And even if Master Bruce were in the vicinity, Mrs. Gordon-Drake’s security system would have alerted us to his presence by now.”

Jason scoffed at that. Barbara was good, phenomenal actually, but even she was not perfect. No one was. Bruce was nothing if not relentless though. “No offense, Alfie, but he’s gonna manage to sneak in here somehow, sometime. I know it. The last thing I need is false hope and bottomless optimism.” The look of hurt that fluttered across Alfred’s face at that was gone as quickly as it had come, in the blink of an eye, but Jason caught it nonetheless. It made him feel about two inches high. _Fuck._ Why did he have to do this to Alfred of all people? He waited for the inevitable reprimand, but it never came. Instead, what he got where two warm hands closing around his uninjured left gently. Judging from the concerned look in Alfred’s eyes, it made both of them aware of just how cold Jason felt.

“My sincerest apologies, Master Todd,” Alfred eventually replied. “I did not wish to intrude on Master Grayson’s territory.”

The laugh bubbled up his throat and out of his mouth before his brain had any chance to warn him of just how stupid an idea this would be, but Jason couldn’t have cared less. So what if his ribs were on fire? He clutched the firm pillow Alfred pressed against his rattling ribs closer and buried his face in the immaculately white fabric. “Jesus fucking Christ, Alfie...” Only when his lungs and his left flank had finally calmed down again did he raise his head again. To his surprise, Alfred had the slightest smile on his lips as well. “You’re killing me here...”

“I can assure you, Master Todd, mild breathing, laughing and coughing exercises are exactly what your fractured ribs need right now. The longer you stay immobile the greater the risk—“

“Of pneumonia,” Jason finished for him. He remembered. Back in his days as Robin, there had been a night when he had taken a tumble down a couple of fire escapes after a particularly vicious fight. He had gotten two broken ribs out of it, among other things, and to his surprise both Bruce and Alfred had insisted he get up, walk short distances and do breathing exercises as early as two days after the incident. Jason hadn’t complained. Any minute he was not stuck in bed feeling like a sitting duck was a good minute. “I don’t suppose getting out of bed is in the cards this time... what with both my legs broken?”

Predictably, that erased the smile from Alfred’s face. Jason watched as deft and steady hands started removing silverware from the tray. A steaming pot of hot water, two cups. Spoons. A tiny cup of milk on the side. A little cup of honey. “Well, you won’t be walking anywhere, any time soon,” Alfred conceded as he filled the cups, “but that doesn’t mean you have to lie here all day and all night, feeling like a caged bird.”

One of the cups was turned to point the handle in his direction and Jason swallowed hard. _This is Alfred_ , not-Robin chimed in. _Alfred would NEVER poison you. NEVER_. He wondered if he could possibly blame the slight trembling of his left hand on the injuries he had sustained or the chemicals in his system, or if Dick and the others had spilled the beans about _this_ as well. There was only one way to be sure and the thought made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up like soldiers on parade. He took a deep breath that made his ribs cry and looked straight into those soft blue eyes that had not once lied to him. He could only hope he wouldn’t start now. “Did they tell you? Did they tell Bruce?”

“If you are referring to the Joker poisoning your food supplies, then, the answer is yes, to both questions.”

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck you, Dick. Fuck you, Tim. Fuck you B—_

“Which one? It was Dick, wasn’t it?”

“Does it matter, Master Todd?” There was an unmistakable, steely edge to Alfred’s voice that left no room for discussion, let alone for the anger that was starting to rise up in his chest. “It is critical information that anyone who wants to interact with you on a close personal level should be aware of, unless you wish for every single offer of sustenance to be a trauma-triggering exercise.” With a quick sigh, Alfred took the cup he had set for him and took a sip before putting it back in place. “I understand your desire to micro-manage whatever information you wish to share, Master Todd. It is your good right and nobody in this house would deny you that much, but please do not expect your family to let each other walk straight into the proverbial knife, especially if said knife is likely to hurt you as well in the process. Your brothers had a choice between sharing information for your own good or staying silent and leaving everything to chance.”

 And chance had a habit of coming back to bite people in the ass. Jason knew. He also knew that ‘chance’ was not a word anybody in their screwed up, dysfunctional little family liked to use. Risk, yes. Improvisation, yes. Chance, no. He really shouldn’t be surprised.

“I’m going to punch both of them when I next see’em.”

“I assume you wish for me to remain mum about this matter fox maximum surprising effect?” Alfred reached for his own cup and took a deep draft before setting the delicate white-and-blue porcelain back down onto the tray. The now empty cup seemed to practically mock Jason’s own full cup that was getting colder by the minute and he reached for it with a quick scowl. For some reason, the little piece of pottery felt unbelievably heavy in his fingers. He wasn’t sure if that was merely psychosomatic or an actual side-effect of his pitiful current state of health, but it only added fuel to the angry fire inside him.

“I insist.”

The first sip nearly burned his throat, but he couldn’t have cared less. This wasn’t just any tea. This was red tea. _Alfred’s_ red tea with just a dash of milk and a few drops of honey. Alfred’s red tea that he used to drink so many times, after long nights on patrol, after long days of studying, after coming home from another escape from the manor, drenched from head to toe and absolutely miserable. Alfred’s red tea, that always came with a few soothing words and gentle reassurances. Alfred’s red tea that, more than anything else in the manor, had made him feel warm and home. “It’s just as good as I remember.”

“I am very pleased to hear that, Master Todd.” If Alfred was still angry at him for his condemnation of the treacherous, chirping birds, he didn’t show it in the least. Instead, he simply waited for Jason to finish his cup before procuring another little packet of red leaves from one of his pockets and refilling. “Now, to return to your initial question...” Jason wasn’t even sure what that question had been, but he gladly accepted the little tray Alfred placed on his thighs and set the cup down to let it cool off as he listened. “The bad news is that you will not be walking anywhere for at least another six weeks.”

“I’ll be fine in four,” Jason insisted. “I’ve already been here for ten days after all, haven’t I?”

“That is correct,” Alfred admitted, “but I am not sure if Master Grayson explained this to you: not all of your fractures are equally severe. Repeated trauma does leave considerable marks on a bone. Your right tibia was unstable enough to require the insertion of titanium screws and I will not have you risk any further damage to it under any circumstances. You will be allowed to remove the cast on your right leg exactly eight weeks after the injury occurred and no sooner.”

“Alfred—“

“This is not negotiable, Master Todd.”

There was no malice behind the words, not a hint of annoyance or hurt superiority complexes like there would have been with Bruce. Perhaps that was what made him snap his mouth shut immediately. There was no point in arguing with Alfred. Not as far as the physical well-being of a member of the family was concerned. “I’m guessing that’s part of the reason why I’m now under constant surveillance, is it?”

“My dear boy...” Alfred’s amusement was clear in his voice, even despite another sip of tea. “If you truly wish to forego reason and risk further _potentially permanently impairing_ injury to your body, I am sure you will find a way to do so, regardless of the extent of our well-intentioned efforts.”

 _Potentially permanently impairing injury_. He let the words bounce around inside his skull for a minute, before reaching for his cup of tea. It was finally at an acceptable temperature. The thought was downright horrifying. Sure, Lucius had provided him with a part-time job that gave him both a nice cover and a semblance of normality, but that job was not who he was. He was Red Hood. Without Red Hood... “Ok, I get it. Bad news, eight weeks for the right ankle.” He was halfway through the cup when he found the courage to look Alfred in the eyes once more and finish that thought. “Please tell me there’s some good news, too...”

A warm smile stretched across Alfred’s lips and one of those gentle hands ran through his hair once more. As the strands fell back into place on his forehead, it only reminded him even more that he would need to cut the damn stuff soon. “There is indeed. Barring any complications, I shall remove the cast around your left leg – a much simpler fracture – after a total of six weeks. Your ribs and the damage to the muscle tissue of your torso should be healed sufficiently at that point to grant you further mobility.”

“Two weeks on crutches?” Alfred nodded quickly and Jason answered it with a sigh. It wasn’t ideal. It wasn’t even anywhere near good, but it was better than nothing.

“Furthermore, since the bones of your fingers are significantly thinner than your tibia, I shall let you remove the splints from your right hand after a total of four weeks, if you promise not to put too much of a strain on them. Until then, I am afraid the only way you will be allowed to move from your bed on your own will be in a motorized wheel chair. Mrs. Gordon-Drake has confirmed that she still possesses a suitable model from her first few weeks of recovery and that she will be happy to show you how to use it most efficiently.”

Jason mulled that information over to the taste of his remaining tea. He was already down ten days, eleven if he was being generous, since the clock on the wall next to the door informed him that it was now half past one on the morning of December 29th. That meant eighteen days in a motorized wheel chair. Another fourteen in a non-motorized one. Yet another fourteen on crutches. By that point, his muscles would have atrophied to the point where – even if it was advisable, which it was definitely not – he would not be in any condition to hit the street right away. There would be at least another month until he would be ready to go back on full patrol. With any luck, he would be back in acceptable shape just about in time for Dick’s birthday.

“I fucking hate long recoveries...”

That got him a quick chuckle in return. “Everybody does, Master Todd, but if it is any consolation to you: there is nothing you could have done to prevent this, and if it had been either one of your brothers or even your father in the same situation, it would almost certainly have ended exactly the same way.”

“Really?” He had a hard time believing that and he wasn’t above letting his cynicism shine through in his words. “You think Goldie would have gotten himself munched on by a crocodile? You think Bruce would have?”

“I do, Master Todd.” He watched quietly as Alfred refilled the cups one more time. Judging from the slow trickle of water out of the tea pot, it would be the last pair of cups for now. “Mrs. Gordon-Drake retraced your steps that night using GCPD’s casefiles and the CCTV footage from the north of Bleake Island. Waylon Jones jumped you from the water and through a wall while you were in the process of trying to help a poor, traumatized victim of a heinous crime. It took both Master Grayson and Master Drake to bring Jones down and according to the Batwing’s thermal scan of ACE Chemicals, he is still alive and has fled the factory, despite the devastating damage you and your brothers did to him. I believe I can safely say that there is not a single man or woman in this city who could have fared any better against such an opponent than you did.”

“Whatever.” He took one last gulp from the cup and grimaced at the empty porcelain. On any normal day, he would have walked out of the room or grappled out of the window by now. On any normal day, he would not have to sit here, feeling like he had ants crawling under his skin and Bruce hovering just above the rafters, waiting for Alfred to leave so he could come in and deliver whatever lecture or sermon he had so carefully prepared for the occasion. There was the slight clattering of dishes against a tray to his left and a hand removing the cup from his lap. Then, as if he had read Jason’s mind, Alfred got up and left, tray in hand and his mouth firmly shut. The sight hit him harder than the bullet to the chest all those years ago.

_Great. Nice going, Todd._

He had finally done it. He had finally exhausted Alfred’s patience. The rational part inside him knew that it had only been a matter of time and that it was a perfectly logical event. Six years of wishful thinking and all he had come up with in the end was more bitterness. _And zero manners,_ Joker added, as the realization of what he had just done fully sank in. The non-rational part of him – the other ninety percent of his brain – couldn’t quite decide whether he wanted to shoot himself – _no fucking guns_ – or just trash the entire place before storming off into the night – _happy broken tibias!_

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!”

He grabbed the closest thing he could find – Dick’s stupid copy of whatever-the-fuck he had started reading after finishing Beagle’s Last Unicorn and flung it straight at the door. Even that little exercise left him howling at the quick stab of pain in his left flank and he kept his eyes closed and his teeth clenched while waiting for the searing agony to retransform into a manageable nuisance. Now he had not only potentially damaged someone else’s property and aggravated his own injuries. Oh no. He had also removed from within his reach the only bludgeoning tool within his immediate vicinity. _Smashing._

The door opened and closed once more with a soft creak. There was no sound of foot steps, but he could feel the presence in the room. He wasn’t alone. By his own count, barely a minute had passed. He wondered what had kept him. “You’re getting slow in your age, old man.”

“That is hardly surprising, Master Todd.” The cloche made a soft thud as it was sat down on the bedside table. Jason looked up at a pair of shoulders that betrayed nothing of the fatigue that he was fairly certain had become a constant companion over the years. “But in about forty-five years, I am sure you will understand.”

“Like any of us are gonna live that long...”

The quick shadow of hurt was as fleeting as it was clear on Alfred’s face and he immediately felt like the worst scum on Earth once more. _Fuck, fuck, fuck! Screw Dick and his foot-in-mouth disease._ He couldn’t hold a candle to Jason’s own tendency to make all the wrong choices, say all the wrong things, all the time.

“I suppose planning that far ahead can seem a bit daunting. In that case...” Alfred’s hands worked fast, yet gently, disconnecting the IV once more and pushing down a thick pad of gauze while removing the needle. The tape came next and just a few seconds later, it felt as if the IV had never been there. “...if it would make you more comfortable, might I suggest aiming for one night at a time?”

The scent crawled up his nostrils almost as soon as the cloche was lifted and he could feel the corners of his eyes get wet even before his brain fully recalled where he remembered it from. He watched in a trance as Alfred reached for the ladle and started distributing the contents of the big pot into two small bowls. At first glance, the mixture looked perfectly disgusting, a sickly greenish-brown soup with tiny bits of dark green and bright orange, but he knew that scent with the same certainty and clarity with which most people remembered their daily breakfast. He would have recognized it anywhere. “Potato stew with carrots, onion and parsley.”

“My sincerest apologies, Master Todd.” One of the bowls was set onto the tray on his lap together with an immaculately polished, but otherwise obscenely mundane spoon. “I would have gladly provided the ciabatta you were so fond of, too, but I am afraid your stomach will likely not be able to handle solid food for at least another one or two days.”

 _Potato stew with ciabatta..._ The first meal he had ever had in the manor. The ridiculously simple hook that had kept him in the mansion when every single instinct had told him to get the fuck out of there, before Bruce Wayne would decide what kind of sick payment he wanted in return for housing a street rat. The first full meal he had had in almost two weeks. The first home-made meal he had had in almost six years. He had a quite distinctive memory of wolfing down the bread as if it were to disappear into thin air any moment and Alfred commenting on his behavior with an amused “might I suggest slowing down before you lose a finger, Master Todd?’ and a quick refill of his bowl.

“Alfie...” He swallowed hard to keep the tears where they were. He was NOT going to cry in front of Alfred. Not after everything he had done to him already. To his left, Alfred was already busy emptying his own bowl spoon by spoon. Jason’s left hand curled around the spoon carefully. Self-taught ambidexterity was a fundamental part of the Robin curriculum, but then again, he was about to move a spoon full of hot liquid over a serious injury with a hand that hadn’t been used for anything that required fine motor skills in almost two weeks. He could NOT fuck this up. When he finally managed to navigate the spoon into his mouth, it took him all he had to suppress the little cry of joy that wanted to weasel its way up his throat.

It tasted even better than it smelled. It tasted just like he remembered. It tasted like home.

***

He had chosen to keep his mouth shut for the rest of the night, instead listening to Alfred as he recounted all happenings at the manor that Jason had missed. And in this case ‘all happenings’ really meant ALL happenings. At Jason’s insistence to hear the full truth and nothing but the full truth, Alfred had chosen not to skip the painful parts.

He hadn’t skipped how Bruce had come home from patrol looking more haunted and tortured and stretched thinner every night following Jason’s disappearance. He hadn’t skipped on how he had kept on calling Tim ‘Jason’ for months, or how he had occasionally just stood in that room, three doors from the stairs on the western side of the manor, the one at the back of the house where no reporter could easily get to, looking completely lost for words. The only entirely red room in the whole house. He had not skipped how they had all returned in tears on his seventeenth birthday, nor how Dick, Barb and Tim had curled up in that room together in quiet mourning until the next night. He had not glossed over the fact that he himself had on occasion walked in there to simply cry and grief. He had not skipped the grave in the forest, nor the glass case in the cave. He had not skipped how Tim had eventually moved into the fourth room from the stairs for good after the deaths of Jack and Janet Drake. He had not skipped how it had all gone up in smoke following Batman’s unmasking, nor how he had set to the ungrateful and dismal task of turning the empty halls of the old abandoned villa on top of Bracken into new living quarters for Master Bruce and himself. Alfred refused to call it ‘home’, because there was nothing homely about it. There was no more youthful laughter, no more cocky bravado. The place was as sterile as surgery room in a high-quality hospital. He didn’t skip how he had left Gotham to take care of his dying sister and how he had not even known that Master Bruce was once more in touch with his children and that there was consequently no more need to hide.

“Truth be told,” Alfred had eventually concluded just before the end of his shift at six in the morning, “this is the most enjoyable six hours I have had in months.”

Jason had growled at that, although his anger wasn’t directed at Alfred. Next time he saw Bruce, he was going to deck the motherfucker in the face hard, broken bones or not.

True to Alfred’s estimations, his days of abnormally long periods of unconsciousness were finally over. He had gone back to sleep soon after Dick’s arrival and had woken halfway through Tim’s shift, just shy of eleven hours later. Unfortunately, his physical improvements had come with an increased awareness of all the five-hundred thousand things that were wrong with his current situation.

Some of them had been easy to remedy, starting with the sudden, furious growling of his stomach, as if the organ had finally remembered that there was such a thing as solid food. Thankfully, Alfred had made sure to keep a wide array of easily digestible, yet highly nutritious meals ready for him at all times. All Tim, Dick and Barb had to do was put them in a microwave and share. The food usually came with a varied array of protein-calcium shakes to facilitate the healing of his bones.

The next thing to remedy had been the side-effects of the two remaining toxins in his blood. The fear toxin had been broken down and flushed out of his system already, thank god, but that still left him with two compounds that made him far more photosensitive than he had any right to be and had him alternate between feeling like freezing to death and croaking from heat strokes. As a consequence, the drawer by his bedside was now fully stacked with Drake Industries branded heating and cooling pads that he could access as needed. Somewhere along the line, someone had snuck a pack of nicotine patches in there as well and he made sure to keep the packaging for later finger print analysis so he could sock whoever had done it in the teeth.

Of course, being awake and in a reasonably lucid state had also negated the need for having other people provide entertainment for him 24/7 and while Dick assured him that he continued reading whenever Jason was asleep – partially because he had a huge stack of books he now finally had a chance and excuse to read – he had been more than happy to provide Jason with a laptop that Tim had propped to have zero access to the manor’s security systems to keep him from flying the coop, but about two terabytes worth of TV shows and movies he had missed over the last six years. “I can’t believe you haven’t even seen a single episode of Game of Thrones,” Tim had sighed in exasperation as he had helped him browse through the Gordon-Drakes’ sheer endless library of entertainment, as if his sorry state of pop-cultural education was a personal insult. Jason had simply rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. He could think of at least two dozen things higher on his priority list than some silly TV show.

Which brought him to the long list of things he had not a snowflake’s chance in hell of acquiring, even if he had sold his soul to the devil himself. His request to get a knife or a shuriken at least had been resolutely refused by all four of them, as had his request for proper pants.

“I know you,” Dick had scowled over a chocolate-almond-flavored protein shake he had nicked from Jason’s supply. “We hand you pants and you’ll be on the road off Crest Hill before we can blink.”

Jason had returned the gesture with a dark scowl of his own. “Like you guys wouldn’t catch up with me in thirty seconds.”

He wasn’t confined to his bed anymore, that much was true, but that didn’t mean he was fast enough to outrun a Bat. Barb had made good work of her own shifts to show him how to use the motorized wheel chair she had retrieved from the basement, a relic of her own days in physical rehab. Getting out of bed and into the damn thing without making any of his injuries any worse had been a challenge. Getting to the bathroom and back all on his own had been torture. And Barbara, despite the infinite, saintly patience that was such an innate part of her, was as uncompromising a teacher as any he had ever had. There was no quitting. Failure was not an option. ADL – activities of daily life, meaning all the shit people do on a day to day basis without ever being aware of just how many muscles, bones and organs are involved in successful completion – had quickly become his new, most-despised acronym. Whoever had come up with that shit deserved to be shot in the head, but Barb’s relentlessness had long-since passed physiotherapist levels and reached Bruce and Alfred status. Thankfully, she had been firmly camp Alfred, providing encouragement and praise at every teeny, tiny sign of improvement and success. Otherwise, he might have just put his fist into her glasses one night.

***

It was New Year’s Eve 2016 when Barbara had finally relented and given him access to the Batcom once more. He hadn’t begged her yet, but he had been close. There were too many cases still left to be solved, too many leads to follow. Being unable to go on patrol was bad enough, but being out of the loop completely was nothing short of disturbing, and he was infinitely grateful to have the chance to finally catch up on the work he had missed.

Of course, his new-found privilege came with one very distinct disadvantage: Bruce.

Ghost, Batman in all but name, had access to this network and while Oracle had ensured him that she would be happy to shield his presence in the network from Bruce’s vigilant eyes as best as she could, there was no guaranteeing that he wouldn’t notice. Jason responded to that info by setting up an alarm on his laptop that would instantly make a hell of a lot of noise if Ghost’s trackers came anywhere within half a mile of the manor. _Problem solved_.

Or so he had thought.

Even without Julian Day, New Year’s Eve was madness, as always, and the thought left a sour taste in Jason’s mouth. All the time he had spent cleaning scum off the streets, all the hard work they had put in, all the sacrifices they had made and none of it seemed to matter. In Gotham, criminals truly were like weeds. Cut one down and another five spring up. Blüdhaven had it even worse, what with having only one half the manpower and so Jason resigned himself to concentrating on working on Nightwing’s casefiles. His backlog was insane. Jason made a mental note to knock some sense into him once it was time for his shift.

Above the restless lights of the islands in the distance, the first fireworks started going up in flames and the sight even brought a slight smile to his face. The residents of the manor always had the best seats in all of Gotham when it came to city-wide festivities. From the central drawing room facing east on the first floor he could see the entire city as the sky came alight with star bursts in all colors of the rainbow. Somewhere in the Diamond District, Bruce was busy dismantling one of Eddie’s new death gauntlets, while Robin was processing a fresh murder crime scene near Drescher and Nightwing was tearing through a cache full of smuggled goods and useless goons. Jason grinned at the sound of fearful screaming as he remotely disabled the power to the building, leaving them all in pitch black darkness. He was fairly certain Nightwing was the only one in there with night vision equipment. He reached for the protein shake on the nearby table only to find his fingers buried in thick coat of fur.

From the oaken surface, two green eyes glared at him curiously and Jason frowned. _Fucking cats..._ Tim and Barb had done what they could to keep them out of Jason’s room, which he was infinitely grateful for. It wasn’t that he didn’t like cats. He just liked not having ten pounds of carnivorous predator trample over his injuries even more. Of course, the drawing room was _not_ off-limits. That didn’t mean he would appreciate a pair of furry paws in his protein shake. The kitten gave an annoyed meow as he grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and pushed her off the table. Barb would murder him if she could see him handle her cats like that, but then again, Barb was downstairs, in the basement, preparing to take over tech support duties for Alfred. It was almost midnight after all. Time for another change.

He had just about finished taking a sip from his cup when he noticed it. The flash on the horizon was bright yellow and orange, a fireball of colors that stood out clearly against the darkness of the night. Another three followed quickly and dread settled in his gut.

Those explosions were too big, too undefined and too low to the ground to be fireworks.

“Someone please tell me that I did not just see four skyscrapers go up in smoke!”

“Jason?”

 _Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, shit, fuck, fucking hell..._ He had completely forgotten that _he_ was on this frequency as well.

 _Focus on the job_ , not-Robin, suggested, and Jason couldn’t agree more. One of those explosions had been entirely too close to Wayne International Plaza. Too close to Drescher. “Robin, do you read me? Come in if you’re still alive and in one piece!”

“Jason, since when have you—“

“Field names, Ghost, and shut the fuck up!” He didn’t need to hear from him now. Not now that he was waiting for a sign of life—

“Robin here.” Tim’s voice was distorted and garbled. Either his communication unit had been damaged or the explosion had caused some kind of interference. “I’m fine, but whoever blew up that building just destroyed my crime scene.”

“Fuck the crime scene,” Jason growled through the laptop’s microphone. “Get out of there now befo—“

Whatever he had been planning to say was lost somewhere between his brain and his tongue as the sky came alight once more. This time, they were fireworks. Very elaborate, carefully planned fireworks. As the clock struck midnight, the lights took shape in the sky and his body froze.

Above a grimacing visage made of white smoke, red light and green stars, the words stood clear in the sky.

_Batsy! I’m home!_


	15. No Place Like Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Batsy, I'm home!" That's what Joker's firework graffiti had said. To Jason's horror, it was not Joker's home he was referring to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out and once again sorry in advance for all the crap I put these poor characters through. I promise there will be a happy end.
> 
> Fun fact: I spent the better part of one evening just looking at the Arkham Knight ending and the Wayne Manor DLC to figure out just where exactly what is in the manor. I have now come to the conclusion that Wayne Manor is either some bizarre parallel dimension where space is bendable. Or, you know, maybe nobody checked for consistency. That works, too.

_Batsy! I’m home!_

He could see the words in the sky, written in bright, bold letters high as a house. He could hear them in his head, in his voice, accompanied by his laughter. He could feel them, echoing in his bones, in his gut, in every fiber of his body.

 _Joker is dead_ _, not –Robin insisted._ _He’s dead and cremated and gone. This is just a sick joke by some damn copy cat._

But it wasn’t. Jason _knew_ it. He knew it with the same certainty with which he knew that his name Jason Peter Todd and his birthday was August 16 th. Joker was back. He could feel it in every scar _on_ and _inside_ his body, as they came back alive with the blazing fury of absinth in an open wound and the relentlessness of a drill through flesh, and in the feeling of those hands looking for new places to break and scar. He could see it in the dirty, blood-stained tiles all around him. He could hear it in the constant laughter, as it drowned out his own shallow breathing. He could smell it in the heavy scent of blood and burnt flesh, mingled with the sharp sting of acid and vinegar. He could taste it in the bitter tang of cheap plastic, pressing ever closer, too close to his lips, his nose, too suffocating, too fucking close—

His stomach knotted and turned at the horrifyingly familiarity of it all, and Jason could only chalk it up to years of early and carefully taught abuse and conditioning – _throwing up on the carpet equals belt and boots until you pass out_ – that he managed to somehow steer his wheelchair into the small bathroom just outside the drawing room and bend his head over the sink, before he lost his breakfast, lunch and every protein-calcium shake in-between. His ribs ignited at the sudden tremors shaking his frame and he closed his eyes and bit down hard on his lips to force the pain back to manageable discomfort.

 _Why?_ What the hell had he done to the universe, recently at least, to deserve _this_ of all things? Hadn’t he been punished enough yet, stuck half-crippled like this, with his nights filled with painful memories of the past, horrifying, twisted re-imaginations of the present and haunting dread for the future that was undoubtedly waiting for him, and with his days spent pushing through one minute at a time, one challenge at a time. Wasn’t it enough that he had to live like this? Why him? Why now? Why Joker of all things? Was it his punishment for finally feeling something akin to comfort, to consolation, from knowing that, even though Bruce may hate his guts and pretty much all of Gotham way want either Red Hood or the Arkham Knight hanging from the highest tree, at least Alfred had forgiven him and would always be there for him? Or was it punishment for his brothers and sister, who had dared to flip the universe and the grim reaper the bird and drag his worthless ass to safety and _keep_ him safe against all odds and common sense?

_Why Joker of all things? Just fucking why?_

He raised his head slowly and what he saw in the mirror nearly had him throw up once more. He looked like death re-heated, pale as a corpse, cold sweat making his hair stick up in odd angles where he must have run his hands through it at some point between the laptop and the sink. There was only one thing in this picture that looked very much alive.

The J was red and angry on his cheek, as it had been the day he had gotten it.

In the labyrinth of his mind, Joker’s laughter echoed loud and grating, like nails on a chalkboard. _This isn’t punishment, Todders. This is the universe re-uniting you with your rightful owner._

_I want to keep him forever!_

His first reaction to the memory was to throw up once more, although by this point his stomach had nothing left to give, short of gastric acid.

His second reaction was rage. He was NOT Joker’s lapdog. He was NOT his puppet. He was Jason Todd, the Red Hood, the REAL Red Hood, and he would be damned if he was going to have this fucking mark on his face any longer. His hands tore open the cabinet below the sink with enough force to send both his right hand and the hole in his abdomen howling, but he couldn’t feel the pain. It withered away in the blaze of the brand on his cheek like a candle under the sun. He tore through the shelves quickly, discarding cleaner, extra rolls of toilet paper, disinfectant wipes, and soap carelessly until he finally came upon one of the little glass bottles of pain blockers that had always been a staple of every bathroom in the manor. After all, you never knew which time of day and which location and inconvenient moments your nighttime injuries might choose to come back with a vengeance.

He smashed the bottle in the sink and reached for the largest piece of glass without a second thought. So what if he had just cut open his hand? With a deep sigh, Jason forced himself to look into the mirror once more. He could have found the scar blindfolded, drugged and with one hand tied behind his back. He new every single fucking millimeter of it better than he had ever wanted to, but that didn’t mean he had to do a shoddy job of this. He put the widest edge of the shard just above the horizontal bar at the top of the letter and pressed sharply. The pain didn’t register that all. The red line forming on his cheek and weeping slowly only registered as a mild glitch in his projected image on the shining surface of the bathroom mirror. The trembling of his fingers was nothing more than a mild annoyance.

He had been just about ready to make the first curve when his vision went black. Not just darker, but actual I-can’t-see-my-hand-in-front-of-my-face pitch black. For a moment, Jason considered the possibility of having passed out somehow, for some reason, or the possibility of this all having been some sick dream. It wouldn’t be the first time. Joker coming back to life was a disturbingly recurring theme of the nightly children of his fucked up psyche. The moment lasted all of four seconds. Then, the backup generator kicked in.

The backup light above the door read “EXIT” in bright, bold, scarlet red and it bathed the little room in a soft glow that looked disturbingly like someone had painted the walls in diluted blood. The change in luminescence was followed quickly by slight clacking sounds that most people would have missed, but that anyone in the manor would have recognized: important door locks clicking shut, hidden switches activating. The mansion was going into full lockdown, securing its many secrets from whichever intruder had dared to breach the outer defenses, while simultaneously giving its inhabitants access to hidden caches in strategic points throughout the house. The cave – _the basement beneath the basement,_ not-Robin corrected, _this is Drake Manor, not Wayne Manor_ – would now be inaccessible, sealed off from unwanted visitors and nothing short of a very, very serious amount of high-grade explosives or an authorized triple-authentication of finger prints, retina scans and codes would unlock it now, and the latter was on a delay timer. No one was getting in or out for at least fifteen minutes, enough time for the manor’s master to return home and kick ass. The distantly familiar procedure shoved three thoughts into his mind before the desire to keep cutting.

Number one. Someone was breaking into the manor and he was in no condition to fight. Bad.

Number two. Alfred and Barb were in the now very, very secure basement and Robin would be on his way soon, if he wasn’t already. Good.

Number three. His laptop with the _direct connection to the batcomputer_ was still sitting unattended by no one but a mewling kitten in a very, very _not secure_ room.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!_

He hid the shard in one of the pockets of his hoodie – Dick might have refused to hand him pants, but he had agreed to go to his safehouse in the Diamond District and get him some of his training sweaters, at least – and nudged forward inch by inch. If there was someone in the drawing room, they were being very, very quiet, but every second he waited increased the chance that someone would stumble in there. With a deep breath, Jason unlocked the door and pushed through.

The drawing room looked slightly less disturbing than the bathroom, thanks to the exit light barely being enough the illuminate the wide space enough to see more than the rough outlines of the furniture. If it hadn’t been for the equally red glow of his laptop’s lock screen, he might have had to find his way back to the table by sheer memory. He rolled forward as slowly as possible, alternating his watchful gaze between the large window and the heavy oaken door. Typing with one hand was hard enough. Typing _quietly_ with one hand was torture and the fact that he had always been a loud typer wasn’t helping. Jason cursed under his breath as the words ‘Password incorrect’ flashed on screen and tried again. This time, the laptop unlocked dutifully.

The wireless connection went first. He disabled and deleted it with a few short taps, then wiped the drivers and the cache for good measure as well. Next up were the case files. He had made sure not to copy anything truly important or incriminating from the servers, but he deleted the data and all its backups and caches anyway. Only then did he notice the chat window flashing alarmingly fast on the bottom right of the screen. He gave one last glace at the still undisturbed door before opening the window. Next to the stylized icon of Oracle’s mask, the letters appeared in sapphire blue.

_Hood, we’re in lockdown. Can’t get to u for 15m. R u ok?_

He counted at least three spelling issues in that short text and even though he wasn’t sure why his mind chose _that_ detail to cling onto of all things, he couldn’t help raising an eyebrow. Something must have rattled Barb pretty badly if she had chosen to ditch proper grammar. Especially with Alfred no doubt hovering over her shoulder.

 _‘Something’ is you being stuck out here all on your own, in a wheelchair, while the mansion is under attack_ , not-Robin reminded him. As if on cue, the sound of broken glass suddenly echoed through the empty main hall, followed by footsteps and hushed talking. He counted at least four different voices, but that didn’t mean much. God knew how many intruders had already broken in through the north and south wing. Those wide ballroom windows in the north wing were very, very tempting. He discarded the idea of hiding and sticking it out until Robin got back to the manor almost as soon as it had come. If even one of these bastards had thermal vision equipment, this was going to get ugly, not to mention that they might just have come in to blow the place up. That really only left one option.

He ditched the laptop first, hiding it behind a row of literature heavy enough to make for great bludgeoning tools, then set the timer on his phone to vibrate in fourteen minutes. He had no doubt that Barbara and Alfred would be out of the control room the minute the lock deactivated. He just had to hold out until then. The emergency cache was exactly where it had been in the old manor, hidden in a giant plant pot to the right side of the circular window, even though its contents were slightly different now. After all, neither Barbara nor Tim had ever expected Bruce to return to this place. With a deep breath, Jason reached in and grabbed what he could.

The domino mask had obviously been made to fit Robin, not Red Hood. It felt strange on his face and not just because the shape was slightly off for his bone structure. How long had it been now since he had last worn one of these? Almost six years? For a moment, he could feel the weight of the vest and the cape too and he shook his head to clear out that thought. This was not the time for nostalgia, and certainly not for a panic attack. The thermal glue at the edges stuck to his skin almost immediately, fixing the mask in place despite the ill fit and sending a sharp sting through the cut above the brand. He already dreaded the moment he’d have to take it off. It would sting like a fucker. The cowl vision came on with a quick tap and Jason had to physically wince at the coloring scheme. _Blue. Always fucking blue._

“Jason, is that you?”

“No, it’s your friendly neighborhood clown on a B&E spree,” Jason lobbed back in response. He decided to save himself some trouble and answer the rest of her questions before she had time to ask them. “Yes, I am aware that I’m in no condition to fight. Yes, I’m gearing up anyway. No, you cannot talk me out of this. I am NOT just sitting here and waiting for one of those bastards to come and shoot or kidnap me. Been there, done that. Never again.”

The heavy silence that followed confirmed just how screwed he really was. If Barb or Alfie had had any alternatives, any valid reason to rebuke his plan, they would have done so already. The frightening truth was that this was going to get ugly one way or another. All he could decide was how many of these fuckers to take down with him.

“Pinky swear I’ll _try_ not to kill any of them here on these _hallowed_ grounds.”

“That’s not what we’re worried about.” Barb’s voice was soft as a feather, but the displeasure and concern was there nonetheless, underneath the syllables. “They didn’t just cut the power, Jason. They _fried_ the backup power as well. The only reason we still have exit lights and short-range communications is because Tim and I built a hidden backup for the backup. We won’t be able to help you out there.”

“Deep-seated paranoia. B would be so proud...” He shouldn’t be laughing at just how dire this situation was, but he couldn’t help the chuckle that wormed its way up his throat. Barb was afraid he might die. He was not. Death had lost its terrifying qualities a long time ago. “It’s okay, Babs. It’s not your fault.” He hoped she was listening. He hoped the words were registering in her brain. Few things cut as sharp as guilt and Barbara didn’t deserve it. Neither did Alfred. “I’ll keep the tracker, but I’ll switch off the comms. Need to concentrate. See you soon.”

He didn’t wait for the inevitable protest he would receive in reply. Not because he was going off comms. That, Barb could handle. She was also very good at telling truth from lies. Concentrating had nothing to do with this, but if this was going to go south, the last people who needed to hear him scream were Babs and Alfie. He had already done that do them for ten days now. He was beyond over and done with it.

It was the sound of deep, male voices shouting that ripped him out of his train of thought. A quick glance around room proved that he had been only slightly off in his estimates. Three intruders were stationed in the main hall, their guns – AK47s by the looks of it – trained on the two entrances to the foyer and the door to the ballroom. Two more were ascending the wide wooden stairs on either side of the hall and he instantly put them to the top of his priority list. If he had to take a guess, there was a ninety percent chance that one of them was going to search this room first, then fan out to meet up with the crews of five each who were busy moving through the manor’s wings. He had to get them before they all met up, if he didn’t want to go down in a hail of bullets.

Which brought him back to the selection of gadgets at hand. There were Robin’s snap flashes and explosive gel, both pretty much useless to him since there was no way he was getting close enough to any of these guys to make good use of them, but he took them anyway. He grabbed two of the smoke pellets and a shuriken, finding a bit of solace in the familiar feeling of a thin, sharp blade in his hands, then moved on to the next little cabinet.

The flashbang grenades were not the same make and model he used, but then again, he would have been surprised if they were. All of his own gear was custom-made, after all, and for all the times he had teamed up with his brothers over the last few months, he had never let any of them near his gear long enough to take it from him, much less copy the designs. Still, a stun grenade was a stun grenade. He wondered shortly whose idea of a joke it had been – Tim’s or Barbs – to store a wrist dart glove in place of a gun, but at the very least it was something to aim with. He counted three darts plus another pack of three for backup and took them all quickly before digging into the last shelf.

Most of the escrima sticks were of the smaller variety, the ones Nightwing usually chose in favor over a batarang or shuriken. He stored two of them in the wheel chair and a third in the hoodie, and grabbed one of the big ones for good measure. He would need at least one rechargeable weapon. He was almost ready to turn around and get to work when his eyes fell on the item at the very back of Nightwing’s compartment.

The disruptor gun unfolded with a few quiet clicks that thundered in his ears. He knew this design like the back of his hand. _Long barrel. Enough room for three rounds in the chamber. Potentially four, if he tweaked it some more. Long distance vision scope. Fitted with a less fancy version of cowl vision._ _Easily collapsible for storage in a utility belt._ He would have recognized this gun anywhere. It had been his last gadget-tinkering project with Lucius, back then, before Joker, before his life had gone to hell. They had still been working on perfecting the design _– too heavy, not weather-resistant enough –_ when Joker had captured him and Bruce had handed the design sketches back to Lucius with the simple, terse comment of “put it in the database”. Back then, Jason had interpreted that as the Batman equivalent to ‘I will have a look at it when I have a moment’, aka ‘I’m too polite to turn you down flat but I am never going to look at this again’. Seeing it now was nothing short of surreal. He turned the gun upside down and felt his stomach contract into a painful knot at the sight that greeted him. The little angular bat was etched into the underside of the barrel with lines so thin, it would have been easy to miss, but it was there nonetheless. His symbol, his mark, the one he had put on all of his design sketches, and which he now wore in red on his jacket every time he went on patrol.

_“Lucius...”_

The sound of loud cursing, panicked shooting and furious mewling suddenly broke him out of his little moment of sappiness and returned his attention to the hallway. The cat came in first, dashing across the room to hide behind his wheel chair with a furious hiss. Judging from the little trail of blood she had left on the carpet, she had not taken kindly to someone intruding on her territory.

“Fucking cat! Come out here, bitch! I’m gonna skin you a—“

Jason cut the angry rambling short with a well-aimed, electrified escrima stick to the head the moment the bastard was stupid enough to walk through the doorway without checking his corners. His left flank protested at the sudden, sharp movements of his arm, even though he had been careful to let his wrist do most of the work. He bit his lip to cut through the pain and moved on. There was no time for crying. He moved forward slowly, painfully aware of even the littlest noise the wheel chair made, and checked the thug over quickly.

He was wearing green and purple. Joker’s colors. No more red and black for Harley. The clown mask on his face looked equal parts ridiculous and creepy, a crimson grin on porcelain white, and he tore his gaze away from it before his brain would decide to send him on another trip down panic attack lane. _Don’t look at the face. Don’t look at the face. Don’t look at the fucking face!_ The rifle was tempting, but there was no way he was going to have anything resembling accurate aim with a weapon with that much recoil using only one hand. Unfortunately, no one had given the clown scumbag a sidearm for backup. Bummer number one. Bummer number two: the fucker was carrying a heart monitor. Given that the little light had already switched from all-good green to check-on-this-guy yellow, there wouldn’t be much time until at least half the posse would show up to check on him. With a quick sigh, Jason dropped a snap flash and moved his wheel chair forward into the hallway above the foyer.

The three clowns in the main hall – _why, for fuck’s sake did they all have to wear those awful masks?_ – were still standing in place, monitoring all exits carefully. He readied the wrist guard with a quick turn to the left and another to the right, and took aim through the gaps in the balustrade. This was quite possibly the best, if not the only chance he would have to take out three guys who were still completely unaware. If he fucked it up, he’d be having an extra half-pound of lead in his body soon. “No pressure, Todd.”

The first dart hit its mark perfectly, embedding itself in the internal jugular of the thug facing the ballroom. In the second it took him to drop, Jason re-aimed and sent another dart into the unprotected, shaven clean backhead of the guy watching the west entrance. His buddy watching the east entrance barely had enough time to whirl around at the sounds and utter a confused ‘What the—‘ before the dart hit him in the neck, just to the right of his spine. Behind him, the heart monitor of scumbag number one finally kicked in, sending a steady, shrill beep through the manor.

“Man down, front-center room on the first floor,” an angry, deep voice he didn’t recognize shouted through the comms. All he knew was that it was coming from the ballroom balcony in the north wing, to his right. “Checking it out now, someone cover me.” Jason cursed under his breath as he repressed the instinct that told him to run in the opposite direction and headed for the only remaining room in the north wing. The library was smaller than the original, part of it having been shaven off in favor of an elevator, but other than that, it was just as he remembered it. Right down to the pair of grotesquely big mahogany arm chairs on the top floor that he now used for cover.

The thug he had heard over comms and two of his fellow goons passed by soon enough and Jason held his breath as he watched them head for the drawing room. It was bad enough that the wheel chair made a certain degree of noise. He didn’t need to add to it, no matter how tempting the thought of following them immediately was. Instead, he waited until they had crowded around their fallen comrade and detonated the snap flash. Only once all three of them were down in a daze of disorientation and momentary sensory overload did he move to take them out for good. It wasn’t the first time that he had come to appreciate Barbara’s boot camp attitude to teaching him how to control his motorized wheelchair most efficiently, but it was probably the most important one. He doubted he could have reached them fast enough otherwise. As he brought the large, electrified escrima stick down hard on each of their skulls, Jason couldn’t help shaking his head.

Where did the psychos of Gotham find these idiots and how was it that they hadn’t learned anything over all the years with Batman? Always look up. Always check your corners. Always have someone cover your back. Always stay away from the vents and grates. Those were easy enough lessons, but apparently, they were lost on these idiots. “Bunch of fucking amateurs.” He scanned his surroundings quickly. Apparently, someone from the south wing crew had found the mess in the foyer and had immediately alerted the others. The consequent swarm of morons flocking downstairs in the hall left him with two guys in the north wing and one in the south. It was a no brainer.

The thug in the south wing was busy jumping at his own shadow by the time Jason caught up to him and sent a mini escrima stick flying against his skull. He went down with a heavy thud and loud groan. From his new position at the southern end of the mansion, the intruders in the north wing were no longer visible. Instead, he now had a semi-decent view of the western side of the mansion, the hidden side, as he had usually called it, because everything in it – the kitchen, dining and living room on the ground floor, as well as the bed rooms on the top floor were off limits by default.

_Except, of course, when the fucking house is under attack._

Jason grimaced at the images provided by the cowl. He counted eighteen thugs, all armed, nine on the first floor, and another eleven on the ground floor. No way in hell was he walking into this in his current condition, gadgets or not, and by the way the intruders were spreading out, they would bring the fight to him sooner or later. After all, the west side of the south wing with its master bed room had re-inforced doors. The south side with its guest rooms did not.

 _Alright, Jason, focus_. He willed the horrifying feeling of being once more nothing but a sitting duck surrounded by clown faces back into the depths it had come from. Yes, he was badly outnumbered. Yes, he was stuck in a wheel chair. No, this was not the Asylum. No, he was not strapped down in barb wire. _Focus on what you want to achieve, and it will happen_.

That memory almost made him want to laugh. He wondered if Bruce would still have drilled that mantra into him, had he known what it would eventually lead to. The Arkham Knight. The militia. The City of Fear. And right now, the worst sequel to Home Alone in the history of life imitating art. Back then, he had wanted Bruce dead. Right now, he wanted to take down as many of these bastards as remotely as possible.

In the dim glow of the emergency lights and with half his right hand stuck in a cast, cracking open the explosive gel detonator was harder than it should have been and he kept one eye trained on the advancing orange skeletons in the blue sea that was his cowl vision as he re-wired the gadget to auto-detonate based on target proximity. He painted a generously sized circle of gel on the floor of the hallway that led from the west part of the mansion to the east and moved back quickly. He gritted his teeth against the sudden spark of searing agony in his left flank and moved to return the way he had come. Woe betide the poor fucker who tried to cross over into his domain here.

By the time he was approaching the drawing room again, the pain had grown from an uncomfortable annoyance to a blinding menace that left him pressing his back against the backrest of the chair, counting seconds as he breathed in and out slowly. He pressed one hand to the wound carefully and was neither surprised at the sudden explosion of stars in his head as the pain seemed to double, nor shocked at the fact that his hand came back wet with what looked suspiciously like blood in the half-darkness of the manor’s halls. _Just a few more minutes_ , not-Robin chimed in. Just a few more minutes until Robin would undoubtedly get back to the manor and even if he went for Barbara and Alfred first, which was more than logical and likely, he wouldn’t have to wait long after that. Hell, he might even get away _not_ being the one with blood on his hands this time. Alfred, while possibly the kindest soul in this shithole of a city, was a beast when it came to protecting the manor and its inhabitants. All the determination of the bat, extensive military training and a free pass from the no-killing rule. You don’t mess with Alfred. He wouldn’t have to fight this battle by himself for much longer and the thought was much more comforting than he would ever have dared to believe or admit. With one more deep breath, Jason moved back into the upper east corridor.

Apparently, the remaining goons from the east side had finally wisened up and decided to stick together. All six of them were in the foyer now, keeping all access points _and_ the upper walkway covered, while moving slowly towards the stairs. There was a chance that they would go north of course, but Jason wasn’t holding his breath for that. Two of these guys had come from the north wing, and the heart beat monitor stuck on the unconscious thug in the south wing was certainly broadcasting a distress signal already. One way or another, this was a confrontation he would not be able to avoid. He took stock of his remaining long range supplies quickly. Two short escrima sticks, three wrist darts, one shuriken. Theoretically, it was enough. Practically, no matter which way he went about this, he’d have to aim under fire, without the usual advantage of a grapnel gun. Or his feet for that matter. Evading was not an option and the thought sent every alarm bell in his head ringing.

The smoke pellet came first and even though he had had to aim around corners, it still landed almost exactly where he had wanted it to. The sound of six thugs coughing their lungs out was music to his ears as he left the relative safety of the corner by the armory for the main hall and a wild flurry of bullets. The escrima sticks hit their marks perfectly, as did the shuriken he had coated in explosive gel for good measure. If the loud cracking sound was anything to go by, he was now no longer the only person with broken bones in this house. The detonation was followed almost immediately by another blast as some unlucky bastard ran into his proximity explosive trap by the stairs. He took the opportunity offered by the little distraction and fired the wrist darts into the remaining three goons by the fountain of the main hall.

The feeling of pride and joy that flooded him as all of them went down, knocked out firmly by whatever mixture Robin had put into the little steel projectiles, almost made the searing pain in his left flank worth it. One of these days he’d have to track down Deadshot for another sniping match. The one they had had one year into his recovery in Santa Prisca, Jason had lost. He would have to remedy that. With one last glance at the now empty main hall, Jason switched off the abysmal blue of the cowl, turned his wheel chair around and headed for the armory. There was another cache there, he knew. Just a few more darts and sticks, maybe another smoke pellet and—

The impact of the fist sent his head ringing and his ribs colliding painfully with the right-side armrest of the chair. He had barely had the time to grit his teeth, when another strike hit him from the other side, making the bones of his face resonate with the impact. _Definitely protected gloves. Maybe even something akin to brass knuckles._ He spit out the blood that seeped from where he had bitten the inside of his mouth at the impact and forced his attention back to his attacker quickly. This time, he caught the fist coming for him before it hit. He used its momentum to drag his attacker closer and ram the remaining escrima stick hard into his stomach.

Where the hell had he gone wrong? Alright, there had been thugs left on the west side, but he had made sure to keep that one either in sight, or covered by his explosive gel trap. So how the fuck—

“Batter up, cripple!”

He had barely heard the words when the steel hit the back of his head and sent him reeling forward. Someone grabbed him by his overlong hair, dragging him forward and it took him all he had to remember to roll onto his right side as he fell. The sudden stab of agony was still pretty bad, but it was a thousand times better than landing on that hole in his left flank. Before he had the chance to even try and adjust to the pain, the gloved hand went into his hair again, clutching hard and dragging him along across the floor. He pushed the instinct to fight back immediately down to the panicked depths it belonged to and blinked through the haze impairing his vision to cover his left side with his uninjured hand to avoid further damage and took stock of the situation instead.

Number one, the guy really was wearing brass knuckles.

Number two, the _other_ guy was holding a fucking crowbar of all things. The sight nearly made him lose the lunch he no longer had.

Number three, he was surrounded. He no longer had the cowl’s x-ray vision to get a precise count, but a quick estimate told him that there were at least eight guys around him. No problem on a normal day. Definitely a problem now.

 _Eight clowns_ , some deep, twisted part of him realized with a sudden jolt. _Eight, identical clowns._ The masks were the same. Always white, with blood red grins, ever smiling, and he swallowed hard to keep out the memories that came with it. He could not afford to panic now. Not after he had come so far. Not now, and not for this fucking bastard.

At last, the dragging stopped. The stretch down the stairs had been the worst part, every single step hitting one thing or another in his body that was already hurting. He could only hope he hadn’t suffered any further damage to his broken tibias. His relief at having stopped was replaced by gut-clenching dread the moment he realized where he was.

“That’s the bastard who’s been taking out our guys left, right and center?” The clown on the other side of the fountain sounded stuck somewhere between disbelief and cold fury. “This fucking cripple? Are you fucking kidding me? Hand him over! I’m gonna pump the son of a bitch full of lead.”

“Are you fucking stupid?” The words were aimed at the thug. The sharp tug on Jason’s hair was not. “We ain’t killin’ this one so quickly.” Suddenly, the clown face was right in front of him. _Not green_ , not-Robin was quick to remind him. _His eyes aren’t green. Not the Joker_. That was a relief, although only a very small one. “No, no, _you_ , chump, you get to go out slow and painful and we’re gonna have some fun while we’re at it.”

Whatever retort he had had ready on his tongue was cut off by the sudden rush of ice cold water as his head was pushed into the basin of the fountain and Jason bit down hard on his tongue to suppress the urge to scream and struggle. Someone was wrenching back his left arm, his good arm, keeping him pinned firmly against the marble while the water crawled slowly under his domino mask. Struggling would aggravate his injuries at best. Worst case scenario, it would let in the water too, and drowning was very definitely _not_ the way he wanted to go. It was slow, it was painful and worst of all, he’d be fully conscious throughout it all. He just had to hold on a little longer. Just a little more.

All of his resolve went to hell the moment they dragged him back up. He had barely opened his mouth to take a quick breath when the horrifyingly familiar feeling of ten-thousand volts against a drenched body arched through every fiber of his body and forced a long scream out of his throat. All around him, the laughter swelled instantly.

“See, told you he ain’t dead yet!” Perhaps it was the same masked face as before that stared straight at him. Perhaps it was one of the others. It made no difference. The domino mask was ripped from his face sharply and he grinned as the bastard earned himself a couple thousand volts of his own in return. His screams were music to Jason’s ears. At least until another took his place. He took a deep breath on sheer instinct and was not the least bit surprised when he was pushed back under again.

_Been there. Done that._

This time, he actually counted. Counting helped, although if he was perfectly honest with himself, anything that distracted from the ever-growing laughter helped.

He had reached ninety-eight when the pressure on his head, neck and arm suddenly vanished into thin air. The night air stung hot against his face as he was dragged from the icy cocoon of the fountain and rolled onto his back. He coughed out what little he had swallowed as softly as he could and tried to regain his bearing as the star-studded ceiling high, high above his head slowly spun into focus.

There was the sound of cracking bones, anguished cries and muttered curses, fearful pleading and non-coherent rambling. The usual fare for a night on patrol. There was also the sharp swish of a cape and the familiar sound of a Batclaw line reeling in whichever poor bastard was on the receiving end of it, as well as the quick, blue flash of electricity flying straight over his prone body and into some other scumbag. Somehow that combination didn’t compute and it took his battered brain a couple of seconds to figure out why. Robin didn’t use any electric gadgets. Nightwing didn’t have a cape. Only then did he realize that the room had gone quiet again.

His ‘savior’ was standing by the stairs leading up to the west corridor, ever-unmoving, ever-relentless, his face locked into that eternal scowl that had always made Jason want to put his fists into him. The armored suit was free of any scratch or dent, confirming what he had already assumed – that this was just another night on patrol for him. He made the mistake of looking just a little lower and felt his gaze freeze on the escrima stick, still emitting tiny sparks of bright blue in the darkness of the manor’s main hall.

The very _tiled_ main hall. Tiled and cold and wet and covered in blood and dirt. “No.” The walls were closing in quickly, pushed inward relentlessly by the sharp laughter all around him. “No, no, no...” The cattle prod danced with artificial lightning. His ankle was broken again. Still. Possibly again. He could no longer tell, he wasn’t sure, but—

“Jason!”

 _Todders..._ Joker cooed, his laughter echoing from a dozen faces all around him as those bony fingers crept over his body again, holding him down, dragging him further into hell. _My wee little Toddy... You remember the cattle prod, right?_

“Stay the hell away from me!” His fingers – thank god he could still move his fingers for a change – curled around something sharp and cold underneath his red vest and he brought it to his throat quickly. Whatever it was, it was cool and yet comfortingly final against his _carotid_ artery. “Not again! Never again—“

“Hood!”

A flash of red rushed across his vision and straight into the black shadow in front of him, pushing him back despite what sounded like a lot of angry growling. Another flash of blue appeared to his left and he could almost feel his brain grind to a halt. He couldn’t remember Nightwing ever having been part of... this. What was he doing here? When had Joker—

“Easy, Little Wing... easy...” The cowl came off without a hitch, followed immediately by the sticks – sticks, not cattle prods – and the utility belt. Nightwing gave a quick glance at the mess of unconscious bodies all around them, then sat down non-chalantly on some unconscious thug’s broad shoulders. “Say, do you remember when we painted the Batmobile red?”

“What?” The word came out as little more than a slight squeak. What did that have to do with anything?

“You had just tweaked the steering a little, to stabilize the car when drifting, and B had a stick up his ass about you doing it without telling him first, remember?”

Of course he did. Uncompromising, angry Batman was not a sight people commonly forgot.

“He grounded you for a full week,” Dick continued with a sad, slightly furious glance at something to his left. “First week of the month, too. Our monthly meet up. You were so upset when you called me. You were pretty good at hiding that, but your voice lit up like a Christmas tree when I told you I’d be coming to the manor instead. Do you remember?”

Did he? He tried to fish for the memory, but everything was murky and grey.

“I brought the paint, you brought the skills and we had that baby painted red, black and gold just in time for B to leave for patrol. The look on his face...” The smile that stretched over Nightwing’s lips was nothing if not sincere. “Sooooo worth it. Do you remember Little Wing?”

 _“What did you do?”_ Bruce had sounded like he was somewhere between utter disbelief and cold-blooded murder.

 _“Payback,”_ Nightwing had lobbed back at him with a shrug of his shoulders, before grabbing Jason and dragging him to the stairs leading back to the manor. _“Enjoy your solo patrol in the Robin-mobile.”_

“Dick?”

From his little perch, Nightwing grinned back at him. “The one and only. Now, could you do me a favor, please, Red?”

Jason raised an eyebrow at that. What kind of fucking question was that? Dick wasn’t the one with two broken legs, a broken hand and a hole in his abdomen. What could _he_ possibly give him that he couldn’t get himself?

“Please drop the shard.”

The pain was sharp and immediate, like a prick from a needle and he found his hand moving away from his throat as if in a trance. There was just a hint of red on the edge of the glass, but it was fresh and pretty unmistakable in its smell. Blood.

 _Did I really just—_ He chugged the shard away carelessly, as if he had burnt his fingers on it. Had he really just put a piece of jagged glass near his carotid artery of all places? “Dick, I... I...”

“It’s okay, Little Wing.” This was Dick Grayson alright. There was no mistaking the way those arms reached around his shoulders in what was a pretty much inescapable, yet perfectly pressure-less hug. There was no mistaking the human furnace that was Richard John Grayson. Not some hallucination. Not some nightmare. Not some joke. Not some trick.

Richard Grayson. Nightwing. His older _brother_.

“It’s okay, Little Wing. You’re safe now. You’ll be okay.”


	16. Blessings That Count

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of his latest brush with death right on his brother’s doorstep, Jason finds that he isn’t the only one in their family who suffers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear boy… This one was painful to write. Painful, but also somewhat cathartic.  
> On a more technical note: for the first time ever, I’m actually putting two POVs into one chapter. I hope the transition worked.

In hindsight, he really should have seen it coming. In hindsight, he should have escaped somewhere between the fountain and the elevator. Somewhere along those six yards. He had no one to blame for this but himself.

“Dick, I’ll be fine!”

“No, you won’t!” Dick’s voice had ascended its usual two notes, as it always did when one of them was hurt and he went into concerned-big-brother mode. Apparently, some things never changed. Not even after fifteen months of torture, death-faked-for-you, three years of mourning, a full-scale invasion and... whatever-the-hell these last fourteen months had been. “You’re hurt, Jaybird, and I’m not leaving until Alfred has had a good look at you.”

Whatever retort he had prepared in protest died as the elevator reached the control center, the basement beneath the basement that not even the architects who had designed the new manor knew about. Jason himself had only heard about it from conversations between Barb, Alfie and Tim, but he wasn’t surprised. It was not like Barb could have placed her super-computers anywhere else. Unfortunately the fact that it existed and that it included a med bay was all he knew. Even if he still had his wheel chair, his chances of getting out of there would have been downright abysmal. Not with Barb and Alfred ready and waiting for him. Not with Dick and Tim hovering behind him.

To make matters worse, Dick wasn’t just hovering.

Jason wasn’t exactly sure why he hadn’t insisted on being placed in the chair again as soon as all intruders were down. Even though it had been less than three minutes ago, his memories of the event were beyond fuzzy. He recalled the sound of skittering glass, Dick’s voice steadily murmuring assurance right next to – right into – his ears and the feeling of Dick’s arms around his shoulders, his hands in his wet, cold hair. He recalled feeling downright frozen, a sensation that still clung to every fiber of his being, and it was ridiculous how utterly _good_ it had felt having the human furnace that was Dick Grayson so close by. Maybe that was the reason. Maybe his fucked up brain and damaged body had been so insistent on a little bit of warmth that they had willingly surrendered to being picked up and carried down to the basement.

Yeah, he really had no one to blame for this but himself.

The door to the secret rooms opened with a quiet swish, indicating that the full-scale lockdown was over now. Maybe Tim had disabled the security upon his arrival. Maybe the fifteen minutes were up. Whatever it was, Jason was glad to see that both Barb and Alfred had come out of all of this without a single scratch. That was blessing number one.

Blessing number two: neither Alfred nor Barbara seemed half as nervous and jittery as Dick. If he hadn’t known better, he might have thought that they had been doing this every night.

The x-ray came first and Jason forced himself to lie still as a dead mouse, even though he felt like he had ants crawling under his skin and a bat hovering just over his face. The latter wasn’t actually that unjustified. Just because Dick had had to break the hug in order to get him laid out flat on the med bed didn’t mean he would just leave. Jason wasn’t shocked that he still had two black-clad hands wrapped around his uninjured left. That didn’t mean he had to like it.

“You can let go now, Dickie. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Not the point.” Instead of letting go, the Kevlar-gloved hands squeezed just a little harder. “I’m not leaving you until I’m absolutely sure that you are going to be okay.”

Jason snorted at that. He wasn’t sure if the word ‘okay’ was ever going to be applicable to him. “Gonna be a long wait, _Dick_. Go back to Blüd to whatever hot redhead you’re dating at the moment and stop acting like a mother hen. It’s starting to piss me off.”

“Rest assured, Master Grayson,” To his right, Alfred brought up the finished scans with a few quick taps on a nearby console, “in Master Todd’s own language, anger translates as caring.”

“’Master Todd’ is lying right here and he’s gonna kick both your asses, if this goes on,” Jason retorted. On the screens to his right, the outline of his skeleton stood out in milky white against the black background. From what he could see, nothing new was broken, although he did have to work hard to suppress a shiver at the sight of the titanium screws in his right ankle. He had gone through fifteen months under Joker’s torture without requiring any hardware, but it had taken Croc all of five minutes to cause this much damage. He made a mental note to double the amount of C4 he had been stuffing in that Croc trap for the last two months. “I don’t see any new fractures.”

“Neither do I, thankfully.” The relief that was almost palpable in Alfred’s voice vanished the moment he his eyes fell on the red splotch growing on the left side of Jason’s gray sweatshirt. “Your wound has reopened and is bleeding through. It needs to be cleaned out and dressed again.”

“Woohoo. My excitement can barely be contained.” He gritted his teeth, both against the sudden flash of pain as his brain connected his knowledge of the injury with the mild feeling of discomfort that had been spreading in his left flank, and against the implication of those words. So far, he had only been awake for the procedure once. He really, really didn’t look forward to going there again. “Well, time for you to leave, Goldie.”

“Are you kidding me?” Another two notes. More pressure on the hand. “I’m not leaving —“

“Yes, you are!” They were not going to have this discussion. Not now. Not ever. It was bad enough that Alfred and Tim had seen him like this. He didn’t need Dick’s guilt trip at seeing the battlefield of scars that was his body, nor the thousand questions that were almost guaranteed to follow. “Fuck off, already. You don’t wanna be around for this.”

If it had been Bruce sitting next to him, whatever softness had been left in his face would have dissolved at the words and been replaced with the same hard, displeasing scowl he always wore when things were not going his way. Jason would have thrown some more insults, quite possibly even outright yelled at him and punched him for good measure. He could have handled it.

Unfortunately, this was not Bruce. It was Dick. Instead of growing harder and angrier, the lines of his face softened until there was nothing left but pity. Jason hated pity. He didn’t need it. He didn’t want it.

“No, Jason, _you_ don’t want me to be around for this. And I know why.”

“Oh, really?” The growl came to his voice automatically, and, fuck, it felt good to watch Mr. Sunshine flinch at the sound. “Do tell, oh all-knowing, all-perfect prodigy! I’m all ears!”

“You don’t want us to see your scars,” Dick stated without missing a beat. “You don’t want us to see them. You don’t want us to talk about them. You don’t want us _know_ about them. But guess what? It was Alfred, Tim and me that dragged you out of ACE, brought you back to the manor and treated your injuries. I hate to break this to you, but the cat’s out of the bag. We _have seen_ your scars, we _have talked_ about them and we are aware that you’ve got them. And here is the part that will blow your mind...”

Suddenly, the pressure on his left hand was all but gone and it took him a moment to realize that one of Dick’s hands had left its former resting place and was now running through his hair slowly. He tried to recoil from the touch almost instinctively, only to be greeted by a searing stab of fire below his rib cage that literally blinded him. Even so, there was no mistaking the feeling of someone pinning down his legs, just above the casts, and another set of deceptively delicate but strong fingers pushing a gag in his mouth before pinning down his right arm, as well as the sudden rush of cold air against his bare skin as the sweatshirt was unzipped, pushed back, and the bandages removed. He could feel the chill seep into every marred line of his skin.

“They don’t make me think any less of you,” Dick finally concluded, as if he had read his mind. “I’m not gonna say they don’t bother me, because they do. It _hurts_ to think about what Joker did to you in all that time we failed to find you...” Someone – Alfred, most likely – started pulling soaked gauze from the wound and he bit down hard to swallow the cry that grew in his throat. The soft voice that followed was almost ridiculously pleasant in comparison.

“... and frankly the idea that you’ve been carrying all of ... _this_ ... all by yourself for _years_ makes me sad and angry and horrified all at once...” The disinfectant stung like a thousand needles and this time, he did cry out. The scream was muffled by the gag, but he felt the pressure around his limbs increase all the same.

“... but _none_ of that is your fault and it does _not_ make me think any less of you, Little Wing.” The feeling of fresh replacement gauze going into the wound wasn’t nearly half as painful, but it itched like crazy and left his stomach bundled into a knot. It just didn’t feel right, as if his body knew that there was something in there that wasn’t natural. As if to make up for it, the gag was removed from his mouth and he flexed his jaw to get rid of the mildly painful, stiff feeling that had been building up in it.

“If anything at all, it makes me even more proud of you.”

“Proud?” That didn’t compute. He forced his eyes open despite the constant stinging throughout his entire body and was greeted by the azure blue of Dick’s eyes, the sight of his uninjured hand pressed to one of those pale, warm cheeks, and a smile so far removed from the show business casual smiles that Dick was usually handing out like business cards at a Japanese company meeting that it might have existed in another dimension. This smile wasn’t fake. It was sincere. And warm. So ridiculously warm in comparison to the pack of ice that someone pressed to the freshly bandaged wound in his side.

“Yes, proud. Because my little brother is a total badass who gives the universe the middle finger on a regular basis, and I will never stop being amazed and ecstatic that you’re still here _with_ us, despite everything that’s happened.”

“Same here.” To his right, Barbara’s delicate fingers slowly uncurled from where they had pinned his wrist and started working the shirt off his shoulder and arm with a practiced ease that proved she had done this a hundred times over. “Nice work on those guys upstairs, too, by the way.” She handed her side of the shirt over to Dick with an amused smile. “How many of them were already out like a light by the time you got here?”

With a quick pull, Dick tucked the garment out from under his back and slid it off his left arm. To his right, Barb was already moving his damaged arm carefully through the sleeve of a fresh shirt. “Sixteen,” Dick grinned back at her. “Out of thirty-four.”

“And not a single one of them is dead,” Robin added quickly from where he was standing at the foot of the bed, still dressed in full gear minus the mask. “That was excellent work, Red, and I think I speak for everyone in this house when I say we’re very grateful for it.”

 _Everyone in this house_. Not ‘all of us’, but ‘everyone in this house’. Jason gave a quick glance around the room while he worked his way back into the second sleeve of his new sweatshirt. “So what did you do to B to keep him from coming down here? Did you knock him out and lock him in the freezer or somethin’?”

That drew a short, but bright chuckle from Tim. “No, not quite. Told him we were going to gang up on him and kick his ass if he didn’t back off.”

“Sure... And he just said ‘of course, Robin, what was I thinking’ and grappled up into the rafters to patiently wait for an invitation.” He rolled his eyes at the absurdity of the mere idea and zipped the sweatshirt closed. “Cut the crap, Timbers. I’m not buying it.”

“Actually, he said he was going to put a dart into each of the guys that saw your face,” Tim corrected. “Apparently, the variant he’s using causes short term memory loss _and_ some pretty messed up hallucinations. If anybody asks, it was Barb, Nightwing and Ghost taking out all those guys, and if any of them claim it was a _guy_ in a wheel chair who attacked them, we can counter that they were just mixing up the three in their heads thanks to the gas.”

It made sense. Red Hood was wanted for murder. The Arkham Knight was wanted for murder, terrorism and a long list of other, comparatively less impressive charges that would make all the difference of a single drop of water in the Pacific Ocean. Jason Todd was... well, he wasn’t officially dead, but if somebody found out that he had been going around the manor taking down thugs while critically injured and stuck in a wheel chair, every reporter within a hundred mile radius would be heading to the manor, desperate to get a glimpse, a picture or – gasp – an interview, and questions would undoubtedly be raised that he didn’t want to answer.

It made perfect sense, and yet he couldn’t help but feel cheated. This had been his work, goddamn it! He had taken down those guys! He had prevailed against all odds and now someone else was about to collect the praise and reward. It just wasn’t fair.

But then again, when had life ever been fair to him?

“Actually, somebody is about to ask,” Barb suddenly called out as one of her computers started beeping away furiously. Most of the camera feeds on the main screen were still down, but there was no mistaking the flashes of red and blue near the front door. The only thing that surprised Jason was that it had taken GCPD this long to show up at all. “Let’s give our statements and get this over with, Dick.”

Babs shot him a quick smile, before heading straight for the elevator and Jason was once again grateful for her unmatched ability to ignore the giant pink elephants in the room, to let bygones be bygones, and to focus on the job first. Unfortunately, Dick seemed decidedly less cooperative.

“Go ahead, Barb. I’ll join you in a—“

“No, you’ll join her right now,” Tim growled from the foot of the bed with a stern glance. “We need both of you for this cover story to work, so please just go.”

“I agree with Master Drake,” Alfred added, even as he moved for the water boiler that had been quietly grumbling away in the background and poured a fresh set of tea for two. “And the sooner you leave and give your statement, the sooner you can return here to look after Master Todd.”

That, of course, did the trick. He could see it in the way Dick flinched ever so slightly and feel it in the way those gloved fingers slowly uncurled from around his cold hand. If there was anybody in this house who knew how to effortlessly push everyone’s buttons, it was Alfred. He always had known. He always would. Back in the old days, it had taken Jason a stupidly long time to realize who was really calling the shots at Wayne Manor, to the point where, if it had been Crime Alley instead of Crest Hill, he might as well have slit his throat with a broken bottle and get it over with. The thought instantly made the superficial cut above his carotid artery feel a hundred times worse and he swallowed hard to keep his face blank as the sheets on his med bed. He really, really did not need to give Dick any more motivation to drag his heels.

“You heard Alfie. Get your Calvin Klein model ass out of here and get those cops out of the manor before they actually start _looking_ at the crime scene.” In which case the cover story would be worth shit. All they would have to do was go upstairs, stumble into the armory and find the abandoned electric wheel chair. Barb had ditched those for manual models a long time ago, so finding one just sitting there right now was bound to raise questions. If the look on Dick’s face was anything to go by, he knew.

“Alright.” The cowl came back on in one fluid motion, hiding Dick’s chiseled features under a shroud of black that made the intense blue of his eyes seem downright piercing. “But I _will_ be back soon. Just stay put, okay?”

Jason huffed at that. “What did you think I was going to do? Get up and _prance_ out of here? On my _two broken legs_?” The pained look hushed across Nightwing’s face in the flicker of a moment, but he caught it nonetheless. It almost made him feel guilty. Almost. “Get lost, now!”

At last, Dick relented. He watched him join Barbara by the elevator. Ten seconds later, the doors closed and a small metal click told him that the lift was moving up. At last, Jason let go of the sigh he had been holding in ever since the alarm had sounded. The cup of red tea Alfred handed him did nothing to calm his nerves, but at the very least, it was warm. He took a cautious sip before downing half of it at once. “Jesus fucking Christ, I swear octopuses look at this guy and go ‘damn, that’s clingy’.”

“It’s just his way of showing he cares,” Robin explained with a quick shrug of his shoulders. The amusement swinging underneath his voice was hardly veiled. “You yell at people. He hugs them. Same difference.”

“Sometimes I fucking hate you, _replacement_.”

Just a year ago, the words would have been pure malice and they would have made everyone in the room flinch. This time, Robin merely smiled at him before returning to the computers. “I love you, too, _jackass_.” The grin was stretched wide on Robin’s face when he turned around to sit at the computers, no doubt rifling through tonight’s data, trying to find out what had gone wrong and how to fix it.

When had he become such a lap dog? Jason tried to backtrack through the last couple of months, but he was unable to pinpoint the exact time when he had stopped resenting the idea of having to deal with any of them for more than five seconds. Like a snake in the grass, his brothers and sister-in-law had snuck up on him, winding their way back into his life. To make matters worse, not-Robin, the damn fucker, actually seemed to enjoy the idea. He caught the movements of Alfred’s hands out of the corner of his left eye and tilted his head to other side slightly. The disinfectant stung in the open cut below his jaw, but it wasn’t half as bad as his flank had been. He wasn’t shocked when a small band-aid was all Alfred needed to cover the cut. It felt downright ridiculous next to the thick casts and bandages and gauze they had used on the rest of him.

On the monitor above the dashboard, Nightwing and Barbara were busy talking to an officer, while Joker’s goons were dragged out of the main hall one by one, the blood-red smiles on their white faces turned upside down. Ghost was nowhere to be seen, but given that all but two of the cameras in the manor seemed to be completely shot, that didn’t mean much. Bruce was still around the house somewhere and the thought turned his insides into ice despite the tea. Thankfully, he had the perfect topic to distract himself with right there.

“So, how exactly did thirty-four armed guys just shut down almost the manor’s entire security system without anyone noticing?” He hadn’t aimed the question at anyone in particular, so he wasn’t surprised when both Alfred and Tim paused for a moment to look at him. He wasn’t surprised when they both went back to their respective tasks – system repair and wound treatment – either. True, all injuries he had earned after he had gotten blindsided were minor at best, but that didn’t mean Alfred wasn’t going to treat them. They all knew too well how quickly small wounds could add up and mushroom into more serious issues.

“The main power lines leading to the manor were cut cleanly,” Robin finally explained as he scrolled through more data that Jason couldn’t quite make out on the smaller screen he was using. “The back-up generator is meant to kick in immediately, and it did, from what I can tell. Unfortunately someone decided to stick a block of C4 to it and the back-up for the back-up only covers the very basics. Emergency exit lights, ventilation, security lockdown...”

“You’re missing my poi—“ This time, he did wince at the dab of disinfectant against his skin, the feeling of someone else’s hands so close to _that_ fucking scar. Thankfully, Alfred moved as quickly and assuredly as ever and left him alone the moment he had covered the cut. If he had any suspicions about just how Jason had gotten that one, it didn’t show on his face. “I am wondering how almost three dozen armed guys managed to make it anywhere near that generator without getting pummeled by the bullets from the automated turrets I helped Barb install on the roof.”

They were riot-suppressing rounds of course. Strictly non-lethal. Barbara had insisted and Jason had grudgingly accepted, grinding his teeth as he had tried to suppress the long sermon his brain had been preparing. There were soooo many ways in which lethal rounds would have been easier, not to mention more effective, but he was pretty sure that even Barbara’s forgiveness was not endless. Lethal force on patrol? Regrettable, but excusable under the right circumstances. After all, even cops were trained to shoot to kill if the situation demanded it. Lethal force as home defense? No. Just, no. Plain no. Not negotiable, and he had been too tired, too wary to argue with her.

If Bruce had been there, he would have gone from horrified to disappointed to downright furious in a matter of seconds at the sight of the automated defenses.

 _Good_. He could feel the smile tuck at the corners of his mouth. “I hope it drives him nuts.”

“Define ‘it’ and ‘him’,” Tim lobbed back at him and Jason felt his brain grind to a halt. Had he really just said that out loud?

“The turrets. Bruce.” Somewhere along the line, Alfred had taken the cup – when had he emptied that? – and refilled it. He muttered a quick thank you as the fresh cup of red tea was shoved into his hand, but his eyes remained glued to the screens. “And you didn’t answer my question yet. I know you have motion sensors in a four-by-four grid all around this place for a hundred yards. How come _none_ of those went off?”

In front of the screens, Tim sighed deeply before typing away on the keyboard with renewed purpose. “I wish I knew. According to the system logs, they are all up and running, including the one I checked on my way here. And that one was definitely active, yet there wasn’t a single alert.”

Jason bristled as the realization dawned on him. Disabling a bunch of sensors was one thing, but tricking the system into ignoring an active one? Fooling Barb’s monitoring software? That was not an easy feat, and while Joker had always been much, much more intelligent than he looked, he was nowhere near good enough for that. Which meant he had gotten himself, some very, very qualified help.

“Barb already started a full virus check,” Robin explained with clear frustration in his voice, “but so far it’s come back empty. Whoever did it was very good at hiding their tracks.”

On the camera feed, Barbara was saying goodbye to the last officers on scene, leading them to the door with all the grace of a good hostess and the same poker face that made her such an insanely good detective of her own. Judging from the look on the cops’ faces, everyone had bought her story. Shortly after, Nightwing disappeared off screen, yet the elevator remained unmoving. Which could mean only one thing: Dick had set out to find Bruce. Jason rolled his eyes at the thought. Whatever comfort Dick was hoping to get out of Bruce’s presence, whatever progress he was hoping to achieve in fixing all the ways their dysfunctional family was fucked up beyond all recognition, he was going to end up disappointed. Dick was wasting his time.

“And as for the turrets: he actually took it pretty well. Scowled at them, tried to give me a short lecture before thinking better of it...” Robin took a sip from his own cup of green tea before going back to the debugging information on his screen. “I guess he knew he shouldn’t push his luck.”

“What luck? The luck of coming back here to find the mansion defenseless and invaded?”

“No, no, I don’t mean toda—“

Alfred’s little cough cut sharply through the air and Robin’s mouth clapped shut immediately. Unfortunately, it was two syllables too late. Jason felt every fiber in his body tense as the full meaning of his words sunk in slowly. The rage was back in an instant, hot and bright, setting fire to the bullet scar in his chest.

“Explain.”

“Jason, it’s not im—“

“EXPLAIN, TIM!” The now empty cup came apart against the wall opposite of his bed with the loud clattering of smashed porcelain. “Because from what I understood so far, today’s the first day he’s been back to the manor. If that’s not the truth, you better come clean now or I swear I’ll torch this fucking place before I leave and _none_ of you will ever get to see even a _trace_ of me again!”

Robin had frozen in his chair, but the gears in his head were still turning. His mouth was pressed into the thin line it usually assumed as he mulled over his options, but it was the quick twitching of his chest that told Jason he had hit the bullseye. Bruce had been in this house before tonight.

So much for his ‘family’ keeping him away for Jason’s sake. In his head, Joker’s grating laughter was growing louder and louder again with every passing second.

“I insisted on allowing Master Bruce into the manor for Christmas Day dinner.” Alfred’s voice was quiet, smaller than Jason had ever heard it before, but it wasn’t from fear. If the look in Alfred’s eyes was anything to go by, it was regret. “Although I suppose technically it was already Boxing Day morning. For more than a year I had to live with the idea that neither Master Bruce nor I would ever get to see any of you ever again. Please forgive me if my insistence on bringing the family together just for a few hours is causing you grief, but I am an old man, Master Todd, and I have spent entirely too much time surrounded by death and wasted opportunities to miss out on such a chance. You have my sincerest apologies for my selfishness.”

“You don’t need to apologize to anyone for anything, Alfred.” The twitching was gone from Robin’s muscles, replaced with a peaceful, almost relaxed and yet not the least bit submissive ease. “Everyone has the right to be selfish every once in a while. It’s called being human. And Jason...” The mask came off effortlessly. It made him look five years younger in an instant. “I know it’s probably little consolation for you, but I can assure you, we didn’t let him anywhere near you. The entire second floor was off-limits and Dick and I took turns watching him like mother hawks the entire time. He did NOT get anywhere near you and he won’t until you agree to it. Not while you are in this house.”

“You are either very stupid or very delusional, do you know that?” He wasn’t even sure where to start, which hopelessly optimistic assumption to be enraged at first. All he knew was that Robin was fucking lucky he was stuck in bed with two broken legs or else he would have knocked the optimism right out of him, together with at least a handful of his teeth. He would never understand how all of them managed to fail basic bat logic on a daily basis whenever things got personal. “Do you have a spare communicator around here somewhere?”

“What?” Robin looked at him as if he had just asked for a shiny, golden unicorn on a silver platter. “Why—“

“Yes or no, _replacement_!”

This time, Robin didn’t answer. Instead, he got up slowly, retrieving a small, see-through ear piece from a nearby drawer and handing it over wordlessly. If his body language was matching his thoughts, he might as well have been approaching a trapped grizzly bear. Jason couldn’t blame him. He was ready to tear him a new one. Him and Dick and Barb, too. He might never blame Alfred for clinging to what had been taken from him twice already, but he sure as hell would blame _them_ for being idiots about it.

“Nightwing, do you read me?”

_“Yes...”_

Dick’s voice was small and slightly tinny on the other end of the line, but he was not going to fret over transmission quality. Not when there were much more important things to take care of.

“Is Bruce with you?”

The silence that greeted him was answer enough, but he needed to be sure.

“I’m not going to ask thrice, _Dick_. Is. Bruce. With. You?”

_“Yes, he is.”_

_Good._ With a deep breath, Jason squared his shoulders. This was going to be painful for everyone involved, but the fucker didn’t deserve any better. _Nobody_ in this house did.

***

Artful, convincing role play had been a crucial part of Dick Grayson’s life since... well, since as far back as he could remember. He had been born and raised a performer, taught to smile and please and be – or at least appear – kind and slightly ditzy to people even when he hated their guts almost as much as they hated his. Later, Bruce and Alfred had taught him more acts: how to be the spoiled rich kid, always floating in front of the camera, but just out of reach, how to be the hardened vigilante, not letting it show how much the work affected him, even if he had just come off a crime scene that made his stomach do quadruple somersaults and his blood boil with sheer disgust for whoever had done it. Even later than that, he had taught himself how to pretend to simply be Dick Grayson, average dude working at Blüdhaven PD, living in a concrete block of anonymity and very, very definitely not being rich, or famous, or a vigilante or any of the other things he actually was.

He had never been as grateful for the immersive acting lessons as he was now, with Detective Denning in front of him and Barbara, jotting down Babs’ statement on his notepad while his underlings collected thug after thug from the bundle of unconscious goons littering the manor’s main hall. Many of them he had not seen before, but he could see the tell-tale electrical burns of escrima sticks, the tiny wrist darts and the occasional shuriken wound clearly enough. These had not been Ghost’s takedowns, nor had they been Nightwing’s. If Barbara had told him the truth – and contrary to Detective Denning Dick had no reason to believe she hadn’t – Jason had been stalking the bastards throughout the manor, despite his injuries, despite the major disadvantages he was facing, against all odds and probably also against all sanity or reason.

How he had gotten out of it without aggravating any of his fractures, Dick didn’t know, but he was not going to look a gift horse in his mouth. He took comfort in the knowledge that his little brother, broken and volatile as he may be, was still undeniably tough and resourceful and clearly not ready to throw in the towel just yet. At least not outside of PTSD-induced flash backs and panic attacks.

It took him every bit of acting skill he had to suppress the shudder he felt at the memory and continue telling the partially made-up tale of how Barbara, Ghost and him had taken out these clowns as if this was just another Sunday for them.

Dear God, it wasn’t.

He knew Jason had panic attacks on occasion. He had seen some of them himself and heard of some more from Tim and Barb. He knew Jason had rigged his helmet to explode on command, and there were really only so many reasons why anyone would ever do something as insane as that. He knew Jason had tried to drown his nightmares before, to the point where a full bottle of Santa Priscan rum and Park Row moonshine that made vodka look cute didn’t even phase him.

He knew about all of it. He had just never put one and one together in his head, so seeing Jason’s eyes go from slightly dazed to laser-focused panic in a split second, to watch his hand press that shard of brown glass right against his carotid artery, had replaced the blood in his veins with ice water, and for a moment, all the acting in the world hadn’t helped him. He had been frozen like a deer in the headlights, as that same awful feeling of helplessness he had felt all those years ago on Mercy Bridge had returned with a vengeance.

How he had managed to actually start talking, Dick honestly didn’t know. What he did know was that he had been terrified of screwing it up every single second along the way. Tim was the psychology genius in the family. Alfie was the one with the golden tongue. Barb was the one who somehow instinctively knew just how far into Jason’s personal space she could venture without setting off the minefield that was his temper. Dick... Dick might have been a hopeful optimist, but he had no illusions about his own abilities. He was rubbish when it came to handling Jason, always overstepping those thin lines, pushing the wrong buttons, and saying the wrong things. But Alfred and Barb had been locked up downstairs and Tim had been busy keeping away Bruce – almost certainly the only person who was _worse_ at handling Jason than he was – and so he had done what big brothers were supposed to do. He had taken a leap of faith and stepped up.

Thank God it had worked! Thank God Jay was still alive! Thank God for this New Year’s miracle!

“Are you sure you don’t want any assistance?” Detective Denning sounded somewhere between worrying and fishing for information. “I could spare a handful of guys to patrol the perimeter, make sure nobody else comes close.”

“Thank you, Robert, but that won’t be necessary.” Barbara flashed him her brightest smile, the one that said ‘don’t worry about me – commissioner’s daughter here, remember’ as she opened the front door for him. “Nightwing will stay over for tonight to keep away any unwanted guests. I’ll be fine.”

He put on his own ‘I’ve got this, officer’ smile and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder for good measure. “She’s right, Detective. I won’t be letting anyone near this place.”

They repeated the back-and-forth another two times, before Denning finally relented. Only when the door had shut and the car was rolling down the road did Dick wipe the smile off his face and let his shoulder slump. “Jesus Christ, he really doesn’t let up, does he?”

“Rob’s always been paranoid,” Barb answered with a slight chuckle. “It’s why he’s survived on the force for twenty years.” Before them, the main hall lay empty, almost haunting in its darkness and silence. If it weren’t for the occasional broken decorations and the small spatters of blood on the floor and walls, nobody might ever have known that there had been a fight going on here, not even an hour ago. “Let’s go back downstairs and join the others,” Barb eventually suggested. “As soon as I’ve got the perimeter defenses up and running again, we can move Jason upstairs.”

It was a good plan, a tempting plan, but no matter how much he wanted to just run down into that basement and hug his brother and never let him go, Dick knew that that was only likely to make it worse. The initial vulnerability from his panic attack had worn off already and more likely than not Jason had spent the better part of their conversation with the police putting his emotional defenses back in place. Getting that close to him now might have been what Dick wanted and needed, but it certainly wasn’t what _Jason_ wanted. And possibly not what he needed, although Dick had given up on that guessing game almost a month ago.

“Go ahead, Babs. I’ll find Jason’s wheelchair.”

That was about the only thing he was sure Jason would appreciate him doing. Restoring at least a little bit of his agency, his sense of control. He could do that for him. Barb agreed with a quick nod and he switched the lenses of his cowl back on the moment the elevator doors had closed.

The room was a mess of blood spatters, but he remembered the spot where Jason had been like the back of his hand. Sure enough, there were tiny splotches of B negative on the floor nearby. Some of them perfectly circular and static, some drawn out, indicating movement. He followed the trail back up the stairs to the first floor and into the armory. Sure enough, Jason’s wheelchair was lying on the floor, kicked over and abandoned. Some of the blood had ended up on the wall, meaning that someone had taken a swing at him here, hopefully only with their fists. He set the chair back upright and paused for a moment to do a three-sixty scan of the entire place. To his surprise, he was greeted by the outline of a blue skeleton, standing perfectly straight only a few meters north of his own position.

Finding Bruce still lingering in the manor was not shocking. This was his home, and even though he had abandoned it and everyone living there months ago, he had been eager to return after Blackgate, after ACE. Dick had a distinct memory of catching him at the bottom of the very same stairs he had just ascended, right between the appetizers and the main course of Christmas dinner, no doubt on his way up to Jason’s room.

What did _shock_ him was that this – by manor standards – tiny room he was standing in now was neither Jason’s room (the one that had been Jason’s room anyway, before the manor went boom, and which Tim had taken great care to paint and decorate red instead of blue), nor the guest room they had kept Jason in, for fear that putting him somewhere too closely resembling his old life would only hurt him. This was not even a bedroom. It was the bathroom next to the main drawing room. Next to Bruce’s leg, one of Tim’s and Barb’s cats – the younger one if he wasn’t mistaken – was sitting with her head titled up as if asking the strange, bat-garbed man what for the love of God he was doing in this house. Dick couldn’t suppress a smile at the picture. “You’re a real kitty magnet, you know that?”

Bruce turned his cowl-covered scowl from the cat to him for just a second, before turning his attention back to the scene at hand. Ghost’s lenses were on and the intensity with which he stared at the sink could only mean one thing: this was a crime scene.

The cabinets below the basin were wide open and half empty. He could spot some of the supplies strewn carelessly across the room. Whoever had been in here – there really was only one likely suspect – had torn through them quickly, probably searching for something. The sink itself was a mess. Someone had rinsed it out at some point, but the cowl picked up the trace particles of relatively fresh vomit nonetheless. Judging from the high protein percentage his filters picked up, this had been the remains of at least one protein-calcium shake. Dick could hardly blame his little brother. The realization, or even just the idea, that the man who had tortured him for fifteen months was not dead after all must have been terrifying and nauseating on a level Dick could only hazard to imagine. On top of the quickly rinsed puke, a mess of pills – pain killers, most likely, given what Babs and Tim usually stocked at home – and broken glass lined the porcelain surface.

“Oh God...”

The realization hit him with the force of an eighteen-wheeler. Had Jason... had he tried to OD on painkillers? It wasn’t impossible. Granted, it wouldn’t work as quickly as sedatives, but if the suppression of the central nervous system didn’t lead to shutting down the respiratory system, then the liver would certainly be toast. Still, if there was one way he couldn’t picture Jason going, it was overdosing on... anything, really. His mother had been an addict and had died of the stuff. He had stayed clean despite being homeless on the streets of Gotham for almost six years and in light of all the ways Joker had tried to poison him, Dick knew from first-hand experience that Jason had gotten to the point where he would flat-out refuse to take anything, no matter how much pain he was in.

“Bruce, I know what this looks like, but Jason would never do this.” He tried his best to keep his voice calm and collected. Just because they didn’t have an audience didn’t mean the act was over. “Jason would never try to OD on anything.”

“No. He wouldn’t.” If Bruce was comforted by that idea, it didn’t show. His jaw remained clenched tightly, same as his fist. His eyes were still focused on the sink. “Look closer.”

Confused, Dick stepped forward and felt his body freeze at the sight that greeted him. From his previous angle, the blood had been impossible to spot, but now it stood out like a sore thumb. Thick, steady splotches of B negative blood littered the broken glass. Brown glass. Brown like the shard Jason had been holding.

He hadn’t broken that bottle to get to the pills. He had broken it to get a shard. What little hope Dick had that it might just have been an ad-hoc attempt to get a weapon ASAP, died as he thought back to how they had checked him over to assess the damage as soon as they had gone downstairs. Jason’s hands had been perfectly fine and so had his neck been before the panic attack. The abdominal wound was far too low to splatter blood over this sink. It had to have come from somewhere on his head and there was only one injury that fit that bill.

“Oh God, no...”

The cut above the barbaric J brand on Jason’s cheek had been clean and – now that he thought about it – definitely deeper than the one on his throat. It _had_ stopped bleeding, by the time they had gotten to the basement, but that didn’t mean much. Dick wanted to kick himself for not having noticed it sooner. None of them liked looking at that scar, one of the few that Jason had no way of hiding short of wearing his helmet. The one that made him turn slightly to the left whenever he talked to someone. The one that was most likely the reason there had been exactly one mirror in Jason’s safehouse in the diamond and it had been covered in dust. Jason hated dust. He cleaned almost as obsessively as Alfred.

“He tried to cut out the scar,” Bruce confirmed his theory and there was a slight, but undeniable tone of sadness and worry swinging underneath the words. “If it hadn’t been for the attack on the manor, he probably would have managed.”

Dick looked at the broken glass in abject horror. Bruce was probably right. And just like that, that last conversation he had had with Jason seemed downright laughable. Who had he been trying to fool? He didn’t know _jack_ about how Jason felt about his scars. Suddenly, every single snappish comment Jason had ever made about Dick’s looks or his dating life took on a whole new, horrifying dimension in his brain. He imagined looking in the mirror every day, only to find _that thing_ on his face, while everyone else went about their lives untarnished and perfectly pretty and felt his heart sink.

Exactly how damn lucky had they been that he hadn’t tried this before? Or, if he had, that something or someone had managed to stop him each time?

“Bruce, I—“ Whatever he had been trying to say was cut short when the communicator in his cowl came alive with a short buzz. He barely had time to blink before an angry growl crawled into his ear.  
_“Nightwing, do you read me?”_

“Yes...” It was all his brain could manage. There it was again, that deer in the headlights, tip-toeing through a minefield feeling he got every time Jason went into overdrive. This time it wasn’t panic though. It was anger. And he shuddered to think that it might be directed at him.

_“Is Bruce with you?”_

He pried his gaze off the broken glass and back onto Ghost’s cowl. The lenses were off now and the light blue eyes below them somehow looked both infinitely tired and infinitely alert at once. Bruce _knew_. He knew who was on the other end of the line. How was he going to explain any of this to him? Where was he even going to start?

“ _I’m not going to ask thrice,_ Dick.” Jason’s voice had dropped a full octave like it always did when he was really, really pissed. This could only end in blood and tears and Dick could feel his stomach turn to ice with each word. “ _Is. Bruce. With. You?_ ”

“Yes.” There was no point in lying to Jason. If there was any consolation to this, Jason was still down there and they were up here. God, he hoped Barb and Alfred were watching him like mother hawks. “He is.”

_“Good. Tell him to shut it off, hand it over and get the fuck out of this house!”_

“Shut if off?” Dick had to cock an eyebrow in confusion. It wasn’t like Bruce was currently busy doing anything. Still, judging from the unmistakable edge of fury to Jason’s voice, they were way past the point of explaining and negotiating and right down in ‘do or die’ territory. “He says he wants you to shut it off and hand it over,” Dick explained as he looked up at Bruce once more. “And he wants you out of this house, although let’s be honest, it’d be weirder if he didn’t. What does he mean, Bruce?”

 _“And if the bastard tries to talk himself out of it,”_ Jason intercepted, _“tell him I will burn this place_ _down again, salt the ashes and leave this place for good.”_

 _Leave this place for good_. Not ‘get out of Gotham and never return’ or something similarly clear. No. _Leave this place for good_. Dick shuddered to think which of the dozens of possible meanings of ‘leave for good’ and ‘this place’ Jason could possibly be referring to, given everything that had happened tonight.

Somehow, Bruce seemed to understand. He wasn’t sure if his carefully crafted mask had been slipping, or if Bruce had heard Jason’s voice thanks to the amplifiers in the cowl’s ears, but whatever hope had been in his eyes vanished and made way for resolution. Dick followed him out of the bathroom and down to the lower level of the main hall wordlessly. Only when he stopped in front of a replica of a knight’s suit of armor and pried a small device that looked suspiciously like non-public Wayne tech from between two of the plates did it truly hit him.

“Dear Lord, Bruce! Is that—Did you _bug_ the mansion?”

“It’s not a surveillance device,” Bruce explained as if that somehow made it any better. All it did was help Dick’s brain shove the sheer shock onto the back burner in favor of sharp, sudden anger.

“Well, then color me intrigued, because now I want to know what the hell this is!”

 _“It’s a jammer,”_ Jason explained and for a moment Dick wondered if Barb had hacked his cowl or gotten the cameras back online, before he realized that of course Jason would know. He had spent a little more than three years planning his revenge on Bruce and that included anticipating his every move. And even outside of that, out of the three boys who had ever called themselves Robin, Jason was the one who had been closest to Bruce in sheer pragmatic ruthlessness and paranoia. _“It interrupted communication between the motion sensors around the manor and the alert routines set up on Barb’s computers. Bastard probably planted it when you so graciously let him waltz into this place for Christmas dinner.”_

Dick froze. They knew something must have been really, really wrong the moment they had come across an active, but apparently useless sensor on the way to the manor, but this... _Bruce wouldn’t..._

But he would. He had lied to Dick and Barb and Tim more often than either of them could count, for the sake of the mission, naturally. He had left them in the half-dark about his plans on a regular basis and he had never, not once, been above using every dirty trick and every window of opportunity to his advantage.

 _“Tell him to remove the back-up jammer he planted, too,”_ Jason added with a deep hiss. _“We’ll do a full sweep of this place as soon as the power guy repairs that broken line tomorrow and if we find even one device left, he’ll wish I had put that bullet in his head at Bracken!”_

Dick swallowed hard. “The back-up devices, too, Bruce. _All of them_.”

To his horror, Bruce moved over to the plant pot to the right side of the back door to the main hall and removed another device from in between the thick foliage, before crushing both in his fists. “That’s all of them. I promise.”

“You promise?!” He wasn’t sure how it happened, but somehow his right fist ended up in Bruce’s cowl.

“You fucking...”

Then his left.

“... sanctimonious...”

Then his right.

“... prick!”

Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. His vocal cords were on fire and his knuckles felt like they were bleeding by the time he finally realized just what he had been doing. The previously untarnished face in front of him was bloody and bruised, but somehow even that felt too insultingly mild. Some dark, feral part inside of him wished he had a crowbar. Or a branding iron.

“You fucking bastard! We invited you into this place in good faith, as a courtesy, a _gift_ to you and Alfred and you go ahead and use it to go behind our backs, betray our trust, compromise everyone’s safety and now you don’t even have the balls to apologize for it?!”

“Nobody was ever meant to get hurt,” Bruce stated, as if that magically made everything better.

It didn’t. Not this time. The pain in his knuckles was bad, but the pain in his soul was far, far worse. “Jason nearly died tonight, Bruce! Twice! What exactly did you think you were gonna do with the manor’s security down, huh? Waltz in here and talk to him like you were still best buds? Like you had _ever been_ best buds?”

“I only wanted to see him. I—“

“I! I! I! Shut up, you self-centered bastard!” The escrima stick missed. His boot did not. He hoped it bruised his ribs bad enough to give him even just a taste of what Jason was going through at the moment. “Newsflash, Bruce! The world does not revolve around you! Did you even stop to think about what your little master intrusion plan would do to Jason, if it worked? What it would do to us? To Barb, to Tim, to me? DO YOU EVEN CARE?! Or did you spend so much time thinking about HOW you could do it that it never even occurred to you that maybe you SHOULDN’T do it?!”

“I’m sorry, Dick.”

“Well, that’s too bad, because I no longer care!” He brought out both sticks and lit them up. “Get out of his house right now or your Robins will make sure GCPD will have to wheel you out of here on a gurney!”

For just a moment, the man he had once looked at as a second father moved forward ever so slightly, as if the message still hadn’t sunk in. Then, just as quickly as it had come, the moment was gone. He watched, jaw still clenched and escrima sticks still held ready, as Ghost turned and left through the front door. The Batmobile’s tires screeched loudly in the distance. Only once he saw the car speed off into the night, did Dick lower the sticks.

The tears came first, even before the pain and the fatigue and the guilt, pretty much as soon as the anger was gone. What had he done? Why had he let him in the manor? Why hadn’t he taken a page from the book of Jason and ditched good faith for survival instincts and pragmatism? How come he had managed to brush off all the things he had done, up to and including locking Tim in a cell, lying to everyone about the gravity of the situation and faking his and Alfred’s death? Had he been that desperate to pretend that nothing was wrong? That they were still one family and that all things would be fine and dandy if only they tried real hard?

No wonder Jason thought he was a hopeless dreamer. No wonder he had done more harm than good.

His feet shuffled forward in a trance and before he knew what he was doing, he was back in the elevator, on his way downstairs. He had just about enough time to take off the cowl and wipe the tears off his face before the doors opened. If the faces of Alfred, Tim and Barbara were anything to go by, he still looked like hell.

The only one who wasn’t looking at him, was Jason.

His face was almost buried in a tablet on his lap. There was some kind of code running across the screen, but IT had never been Dick’s specialty, so even if he had wanted to know what it was, he wouldn’t have been able to tell. As things stood, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Jason didn’t even want to look at him right now. What mattered was that the J on his cheek stood out in ugly clarity. What mattered was that the band-aid above it was barely enough to cover the cut.

“Jay...” He nudged forward slowly. If Jason wanted to beat the crap out of him with his one good hand, he’d be more than happy to give him the opportunity to do it. Only when he sat down on the edge of the bed, just to the left of Jason’s hip, did his little brother finally look at him. His face, his eyes, were eerily blank and void of any hint of emotion. “I’m so sorry, Jaybird.” Suddenly, his head felt like lead. He wanted to disappear. He wanted for the earth to open up and swallow him whole, and he had to clench his fists to block out the alluring urge to hang his head in shame. He couldn’t. Not now. He owed this to Jason. After all the crap that had happened. He owed him this much. With a deep breath, Dick forced himself to look him straight in the eyes, never mind the damn scar and the band-aid.

“I made a terrible mistake, Jason. I should never have let him back into this place. I’m sorry. I’m so _sorry_!”

Jason blinked once, then mustered him from head to toe as he was waiting for the punch line. His eyes seemed to drill holes straight through him and Dick didn’t find the strength in him to suppress a shudder. Whatever punishment Jason was considering doling out on him, he deserved it. It wasn’t until he buried his face in his tablet again that Dick realized Jason had been holding his breath as well.

“Apology accepted.”


	17. Darkest Before Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter how bleak things may seem, one should always remember: the night is always darkest before dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **SERIOUS TRIGGER WARNING:** There is a rather graphic and disturbing nightmare scene about two thirds into this, which contains among other things graphic mutilation and suicide, not to mention tons of angst and pain for everyone involved. Consider yourself warned! If you wish to skip said scene, STOP reading at “In his dreams” and continue reading at “Wake up!” Seriously, I am not kidding. _I_ cried while writing this.

Sometimes, retreat was not an option. Sometimes, you just had to stay and fight.

And in the case of their screwed up family, sometimes translated as ‘always’.

Dick had looked like hell when he had returned from his clash with Bruce and Jason hadn’t been able to blame him. Yes, Dick could be hot-headed, even reckless. Yes he was a very emotional person. Yes, he had had some epic screaming matches with Bruce ever since his last year as Robin, at least if Alfred was telling the truth, and Jason had no reason to believe that he didn’t. Yes, Dick was no stranger to foul language.

But the fucking f-word? Twice?! Punching Bruce in the face? Punching him some more?!

Jason hadn’t expected it. He had had a hard time believing that Tim was capable of that. Dick... impossible. Or so he had thought. The fresh blood on his knuckles and the audio logs from the cowl comms said otherwise. Most importantly, though, Dick’s face had said otherwise. The tears had been gone by the time he had stepped out of the elevator, but the pain had still been there. His voice had been like ground glass, and there had been a level of _pleading_ in his voice that could have made husky puppies look downright hideous in comparison. Dick had been in agony, utter misery radiating from every inch of his body, and somehow Jason hadn’t found it in himself to hold on to the anger that had made him shout at Dick just a few minutes earlier.

_Don’t be a Richard and don’t be a Bruce._

He would NOT stick a knife into someone who was already beating himself up over the mistakes he had made. He would NOT move on to the mission without any regard for his partner’s well-being. That was Bruce. And Bruce was pretty far up on the list of people Jason hoped he’d never be. Right below the Joker and the Arkham Knight, actually.

But now the sappy times were over. He had heard the apology. He had acknowledged it. His job in this was over. If Dick wanted to continue shrouding himself in agony and self-pity, he could do it. Jason himself had better things to do. On the tablet in his lap, the full check of the manor’s sensor system was almost complete. So far, Barb had pinged eighty-six percent of the sensors individually, double- and triple-checking each with multiple requests. All had come back positive. If Bruce had planted any jammers elsewhere, they were offline now.

Sadly, the blissful silence didn’t last very long.

“Oracle, do you read me?” Ghost’s voice was tense and tinny over the comms links – they were working off a back-up of a back-up after all – but there was no mistaking the displeasure swinging underneath the words. Jason watched Barb’s mouth thin into a terse, uncompromising line.

“Yes. We’re _all_ here.” Which was probably code for ‘Jason’s here too, so unless you want Nightwing or Robin to come over and beat you up some more, you’d better be very careful with your choice of words’.

“The Clock Tower’s been hit.” Barbara and Tim cursed quietly. Dick peeked up from where he had been sitting, slumped down in complete exhaustion. Alfred, stoic as ever, simply handed him a fresh protein shake, just before Ghost continued. “There are downed thugs all around the tower and the fire suppression system in the lower rooms has been activated. I can see no permanent damage.”

“I guess I’ll head over there and check to see if the control room has been hit.” Tim sighed deeply. The idea of leaving the manor now, after everything that had just happened, obviously didn’t sit right with him.

“No need. I am already here, Tim.”

“First,” now Barb sounded pissed, too, “field names, Ghost. Secondly, if you think that I am giving you access to _any_ of our bases, safe-houses or apartments after what you did, you better hope for another thing coming. I appreciate your concern, but no. Just _no_.”

The eight-second silence that followed ended when the comms link cut out. Jason raised an eyebrow in amusement. Of course the fucker hadn’t been inclined to talk it out. That might have involved actually listening to other people, potentially even compromising! Oh, the humanity! He rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the security check. The last sensor surrounding the manor responded to his third ping with a happy green light.

“All sensors are up and running again. We should make this system-check a daily deal.”

“Agreed,” Tim reached for his bo staff and cowl before doing a quick sweep of the room. “Are you guys sure you’ll be alright?”

“Certainly, Master Drake.”

“I’ll make sure of it,” Nightwing assured, and Jason had to bite his lip to suppress the sharp retort that had been wanting to make its way out of his mouth at the sentence.

Dick still looked downright miserable – fatigued and drained beyond what was average for patrol half-time. That didn’t mean he couldn’t be a force to be reckoned with, of course. Many a thug had made that mistake – assuming that any of them were easy pray when they looked like they had been through the ringer, only to get their asses handed to them. Still, emotional distress and physical exhaustion were two entirely different things and he honestly couldn’t recall ever having seen Dick this worn down. He wasn’t _sure_ just how much use Dick would be in his current state, and that perhaps was even worse than the fact itself.

“We’ll be fine.” He kept his eyes glued to the screen, continuing his debugging efforts with the cameras outside the manor. “Lightning doesn’t usually strike the same place twice. Besides, I don’t think he wants us dead just yet.”

“Why not?” At last, Dick sounded something other than miserable. Sadly, it had been entirely the wrong question.

“Because it’s the fucking Joker! If he wanted us dead he would have dropped a napalm bomb on this place or pumped it full of his laughing gas. And besides,” he bit his lip hard. _Here come the hundred questions..._ “Besides, he wouldn’t want us dead _that_ quickly, oh no no no no. That’s no _fun_.”

“Double trackers and five-minute routine-check-in protocols then,” Barbara suggested and Tim nodded in agreement. “If you’re silent for a second longer, I’m sending Bruce after you.”

“Seriously?” Tim sounded downright offended. “I thought you’d say Nightwing—“

“Dick’s staying with us,” Barb insisted. “And he’ll be staying here for the day, too. Until we know just how many of our apartments and safe-houses have been compromised, no one is going anywhere. Agreed?”

 _One big family reunion..._ Jason rolled his eyes at the thought. He wasn’t surprised when Tim and Dick agreed immediately.

“I shall remain here until sunrise,” Alfred confirmed, “but after that, I will return to Bracken.” That _was_ a surprise. Judging from the incredulous looks on Robin’s and Nightwing’s faces, he was not alone. Alfred did not even shrug his shoulders. “It is unmistakably clear to me now that Master Bruce has barely learned anything from the events of the last few months. I shall remedy that situation at the earliest convenience.”

Jason cringed. _God help you, Bruce_. Alfred was undoubtedly the sweetest, kindest, most gentle soul on the face of the Earth, but god save your fucking ass, if he ever got pissed enough to actually give you a verbal beatdown. Most people got louder and more vulgar the angrier they got and that was easy enough to tune out if you had enough practice, but Alfred? Alfred was the kind of person who would stand there, unmoving, unflinching, explaining to you in the calmest and nicest choice of words you had ever heard what an unworthy, incapable bastard you were. To make matters worse, he was always _right_. Alfred didn’t usually see fit to complain unless there was something seriously wrong and he had a talent for cutting through all the bullshit and murdering all counter-arguments before they even had a chance to make it to someone’s tongue.

 _On second thought, fuck it. Let Alfred grill the bastard._ What did he care anyway? If there was one person in the world who deserved a lecture from Alfred, it was Bruce. He hoped the fucker would hurt at every single word.

“That sounds... good to me.” Maybe Tim wasn’t as convinced, but then again, there were other fish to fry. Jason watched as he kissed Barbara goodbye quickly before heading back upstairs in the elevator.

“I’ll start checking the perimeter,” Dick eventually offered. “Babs, if you can send a map with all the motion sensors to my cowl, I can do a quick sweep. Quadruple check, so to speak.”

“Great, now we just need to find a reason for the three of _us_ to get out of this over-sized coffin and everything will be just smashing.”

He wasn’t entirely sure where he had misstepped, but he must have, somewhere, somehow. Barb was looking at him with that typical, analytical Batgirl glare of hers that went all the way from ‘not sure if serious or just insane’ to ‘what exactly are you hiding’ in less than a second. He had seen it often enough in his time as Robin, usually when he had suggested one thing or another that didn’t really seem to make immediate sense to anyone but his own messed up self. It had turned out okay more often than not, but, of course, in their family even a one-percent error margin was a failing grade. On the bright side – more of a silver lining, if he was being honest – Barbara’s first concern was usually not the mission, but the well-being of her fellow crime-fighters.

“Are you sure you want to be moving around already? It’s not even been an hour since we took care of that wound in your side.”

That was a solid, logical argument. Too bad solid logic was worth shit when your brain was your worst enemy. “I’m sure I don’t want to be in a fucking basement without proper heating or even a window for any longer than I need to. If I wait here until the over-friendly Blüdhaven octopus comes back, I’m never leaving this room. I just know it.”

That made Barbara laugh in return. He watched her shake her head with the grin still plastered on her face. With any luck, Dick was on an open comms line and had heard it. If not, Jason had a feeling someone would be spilling the beans soon. Again.

“Well, if you do feel up to the task,” Alfred intervened with a slight cough, “I would very much like to ascertain just how much damage those intruders have done to the manor and clean up what I can while I am still here. I would welcome a second pair of eyes.”

“Tampering with a crime scene, huh?” Jason grinned as he finished the rest of his protein-shake. His stomach protested slightly at the feeling of fresh sustenance so shortly after he just threw up the previous meal, but it wasn’t the compulsive kind of grumbling and cramping. He knew those too well from his time on the streets. No, this was just his fucked up psyche asking him if he was a thousand percent sure if it was a good idea. “I’m your man, Alfie.”

***

They started with the big bathroom on the ground floor, to the left of the south side stairs. Armed with a broom and a flashlight, respectively, Alfred and Jason set out to their task of getting the worst of the mess cleaned up. The bathroom was spotless except for what looked like at least three different sets of dirty footprints. Alfred scoffed at the sight, but moved on with determination nonetheless. There was no point in cleaning up anything a broom couldn’t fix in this half light. The real cleaning would have to wait until tomorrow, when GC Hydro and Power had sent someone over to take care of the broken power cables. The two studies were in similar condition, albeit with the unfortunate addition of _carpet_ instead of tiles and a very, very displeased elderly cat that dashed from the room as soon as she had taken a moment to growl and hiss at both of them. Jason returned the gesture with a sharp hiss of his own.

The first real battle field of the day was the dining room and its adjacent living room. Jason grimaced at the sight of a broken oak table, two shattered chairs, a broken glass cabinet and the half dozen bullets in the huge flat screen TV. “Well, let’s hope they didn’t hit the PS4 or Tim and Barb might just arrange for an unfortunate accident in prisoner detention.”

“I shall keep my fingers crossed.” And with that, Alfred started sweeping up the mess that had been left on the floor and pushing aside the heavier pieces that didn’t fit into the pan. Somehow, even now, six years after he had disappeared, Jason had to fight the urge to get up and help. Watching Alfred do all the work while sitting by idly had never been his thing. At first, Alfred had stubbornly, but politely, refused any offers of support, until Jason had asked him if he wanted him to turn into the same kind of slob Dick had become after his eventual, inevitable departure from the manor. Alfred had blinked at him once, then handed him a cloth and a bottle of cleaner without further comment. Even now the memory brought a smile to Jason’s face.

“So, do you think we’ll get all rooms cleaned up before the night’s over?”

“That depends entirely on how much of a mess these rascals have made of the rest of manor.”

The answer to that question was ‘too much’, of course.

The main hall had been next and given that that was where most of the fighting had gone on, neither Jason nor Alfred had been shocked to find the hall in complete disarray, littered with discarded cartridges, chipped pieces detached from the fountain’s basin and the occasional tooth. One of the windows had a few holes in it, too, so perhaps it was a blessing that the heating wasn’t working right now. Even though Jason sincerely doubted that a few hours of futile heating would put any noticeable dent in the utility bill of a billionaire, part of him winced at the idea of wasting that kind of money.

What did come as a shock was the state of the ballroom. Somehow, one of the big, crystal chandeliers had actually survived the attack. The other one had turned into a mess of broken glass and bent metal, and it had cracked the hardwood floor to boot. Four of the six windows would definitely need to be replaced, including both of the big ones facing north and Jason sighed at the sight. This was going to be fucking expensive, not to mention a pain in the ass. After all, the ball room was roughly thirty-three by sixty-five feet. Fuck billionaires and their obsessive-compulsive need to make everything ridiculously extra-large. By the time they were done sweeping the room one yard at a time, Alfred had gone to empty the pan in the nearest garbage bin more times than Jason wished to count and the flashlight in his own left hand had started feeling heavier than it had any right being. If it hadn’t been for Alfred recounting the most hilarious and disastrous evenings ever had in this room and the many ways in which every child or teenager that had ever lived there had caused similar damage, it would have been repetitive and bleak to the point of frustration.

The next room was the library and Jason was happy to see that this room at least had been spared any gunfire. Sure, the piano was missing a few keys where someone had rammed some poor mook’s head into it, but other than that, the room was in remarkably good condition. The armory was a battlefield of broken glass, but judging from the empty display cases and the weapons strewn across the floor, Jason had a feeling that one had been entirely intentional.

“How desperate do you have to be to go for a katana when you have an AK-47?”

Alfred gave him an amused smile. “These men thought it a bright idea to attack the former home of the Batman. I do not expect the highest degree of logic from such brilliant masterminds.”

The first floor turned out to be somehow both worse and better than the ground floor. On the bright side, there was no ballroom to clean up, since that encompassed both floors, and the top floors of the library and armory had taken only minor abuse, save for the generous splatter of blood on the armory floor and walls. On the downside, his stomach turned into a painful knot the moment he looked at the drawing room and the bathroom next to it. The cut above his scar lit up in a blaze. He did not need Alfred to see the mess he had left behind there, much less give him the chance to piece one and one together. He did not need him to know that he had come within an inch of mutilating his own face even further.

“I take the bathroom, you take the drawing room?”

Despite the dubious nature of the lighting around them – what else did they have except for a flashlight and some exit lights? – he could see the gears in Alfred’s head turning. Alfie was the best actor of all of them and nobody did unwavering stoicism as well as he did, but there were tells, if you knew where to look and if you bothered to study them long enough. Jason knew them all by heart. The quick twitching of the right side of Alfred’s mouth. The one-second mustering gaze that he used to verify the situation. The way his eyes would then zoom in on whoever he was speaking to, somehow staring just intently enough to make his presence known, but not enough to reveal his thoughts.

In Alfred’s world, bullshit was made of plexiglas.

“Very well, Master Todd.”

And that was Alfredese for ‘I know you are hiding something, but I don’t think either of us are in the mood for a shouting match, so I shall channel the three wise monkeys for this moment’. He watched as the butler made his way into the drawing room, sweeping as he went, and took a deep breath before heading into the bathroom.

The place was still a mess, with clutter all over the floor, glass shards and pills all over the sink, and the distinct smell of blood wafting up from the porcelain. Thankfully, the cleaning gloves were still within his reach and he pushed both over his left hand before setting to work, prying off the lid of the small garbage bin and then ditching handfuls of broken glass and pills into it. He cursed his broken, right hand as he went along. He had maybe five minutes at best before Alfred would join him. Every second counted. Once the mess in the sink had been cleaned up, he opened the tap and reached for the nearest cleaning cloth, scrubbing the sink as hard as he could without driving the smaller shards that had stuck to the outer glove deeper inside and into his skin.

What the hell had he been thinking trying to cut out his scar in this bathroom of all places? The one in his temporary room he might have gotten away with, if only because Barbara had shown him his way around the motorized wheel chair for good reason. The entire point was that he would reach the goal of being able to do everything he would need to do in his room without any external help, so he would have the choice to tell people to go and leave him alone if he so wanted. But this place? In a house where almost every bedroom was ensuite he just _had_ to pick one of the two ‘public’ bathrooms? Way to fucking go.

By the time he deemed the sink to be in acceptable shape, the first pieces of glass were pricking against the burnt skin of his left palm. He ditched the double gloves quickly, careful to conceal the entire bloody mess in the bin as best as he could, then set to putting everything back where it belonged. Some things were out his reach – bending down and forward too much was a really, really dumb idea, as he had soon learned – and he cursed quietly at the two rolls of toilet paper and the drain cleaner that were lying uselessly on the bathroom floor just beside the toilet, mocking his feeble attempts at tidiness. It was a small cough behind him that finally pulled him back to reality.

“If you are done, Master Todd, I would like to continue our cleaning efforts by heading to the master bedroom, then making our way westward from there.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

They headed around the north side of the balcony overlooking the main hall and for a moment Jason couldn’t help wondering why they were taking the long route until it occurred to him that _he_ had been the one coating the floor on the south side with explosive gel. Chances were good the floor boards had not taken kindly to the detonation, and his wheel chair would take even less kindly to the uneven terrain.

The smaller bedroom adjacent to the ballroom had been left almost undisturbed. On the other hand, the master bedroom – once belonging to Thomas and Martha Wayne, then Bruce, and now Tim and Barb – had been completely trashed and Jason felt hot anger bubble up inside his gut at the sight of the broken windows, the turned over mattress, the unhinged closet doors and the drawers turned inside out. Judging from the look of displeasure on Alfred’s face, it was a mutual feeling.

“What were they looking for?” He was faintly aware of Alfred clearing the worst off the rubble out of his way as he moved forward and into the monstrosity of this room that had always seemed too big, too grand, too hollow, when it had been only Bruce sleeping here. The sight of the king-sized island of a bed conjured up an unfortunately _clear_ memory of when he had been just a few weeks shy of fourteen and a few steps short of freezing on the spot in dread. On that night, he had stepped carefully into that room at too-goddamn-early in the morning, slowly unbuttoning the shirt of the too cozy pyjamas Alfred had conjured up for him from somewhere, his eyes too focused on his fumbling fingers to realize that Bruce’s face had slowly turned from sleep-addled confusion to cold-blooded horror as Jason’s intent had dawned on him. What had followed had been a half-hour sermon on what he had done _wrong_ and why he would _never ever_ have to do it again for _anyone_ in his life and how he should just go back to his room and try to get some sleep because he would be _safe_ there. Jason hadn’t believed a word of it. For Jason, it had never been a question of ‘if’, only of ‘when’, ‘where’ and ‘how’. Now his feeble attempt to be in control of the first two points had been foiled, the options taken from him in an uncompromising tone that had cemented his fear that he would be in for a very, very painful debt collection, sometime, somewhere, somehow.

Well, he had ended up right about one thing: Bruce was a fucking liar.

“Earth to Master Todd, are you still there?”

“Yes?” He whirled around sharply, and his left flank made him regret it instantly. He really needed to stop the fucking day-dreaming and pay more attention to that injury, if he wanted it to heal properly.

“There is no point in searching for clues in such miserable light,” Alfred continued without missing a beat. “How about we take care of the remaining five rooms instead?”

 _Five rooms to go._ Dick’s old room right next to this one, then two more. Another two bedrooms for guests on the east side of the south wing. Five rooms, one hole in the flank. He could do this. “Sounds great.”

Dick’s room was the same messy and hideous conglomeration of everything blue and silver that it had always been. All that was missing was some glitter and a disco ball to turn it into the kitschiest thing this side of Gotham Bay. The walls were covered in Flying Graysons posters and small, ornate frames, each containing a picture of Tim, Barb, Alfred, Dick or a combination of the four of them. It was typical Grayson – except for the empty frame next right next to the bed. He shone the flashlight on it in fresh curiosity. “Since when does Dick hang up empty frames in his room?”

“Well, it is not _intended_ to be empty forever.” The amusement was easy to hear in Alfred’s voice. “Would you like me to tell you a secret about Master Grayson in return for his earlier, _diabolic_ treason regarding your dietary habits?” If Alfred had been expecting an answer, he wasn’t waiting for it. Instead, he lifted the frame off the nail it was hanging from and turned it around quickly. On the back, the words ‘Get pic with Jason!’ stood out in Dick’s goofy excuse of proper handwriting, followed by the tinier, but much more graceful hand of Barbara. _Without getting shot!_

“I _am_ going to shoot the fucker...” Jason groaned into his palm. He had never been a photogenic person to begin with and the scars had not made it any better. It was bad enough he had to see this crap every time he looked into a mirror. He didn’t need it immortalized on any more pictures than his driver’s license and passport. “Though I guess I should be grateful he didn’t just take some morbid photo-bombed selfie while I was out like a light.”

“Master Grayson would never do that to you, and you know it.” Whatever lightheartedness had been in Alfred’s voice had vanished in an instance, replaced by the warm, yet stern resolution he always reserved for absolutely serious conversations. “I understand that it might be impossible for you to accept or even acknowledge at this point in time, but Master Grayson cares very deeply for you and while his sense of timing and tact might not entirely match up with your needs, he loves and respects you too much for such deliberate exploitation. We all do. And one day, you _will_ be able to understand.”

With that, Alfred put the frame back in place and left. Jason cursed quietly. How the fuck did he always end up pissing off and hurting Alfred? Why the fuck could no one in this family have a single, normal conversation with each other? What the ever loving hell... He gave one last look at the empty frame and the crumpled bed sheets that confirmed Dick had spent at least a few recent nights right here, before turning around and slamming the door shut behind himself.

The door to the room right next to Dick’s was wide-open, but he could barely bring himself to glance into the chamber, red instead of blue, pristine and untouched instead of messy and cluttered. He couldn’t go back in there. Not now. Maybe never. Certainly not now. Instead, he headed for the guest room on the opposite side of the hallway, trying not to think of the broken floor boards he could see to the room’s left out of the corner of his eye.

The guest rooms – both of them – had remained relatively untouched and he was thankful for that. Granted, they weren’t as grand or as comfortable as the master bedroom, but at the very least Tim and Barb would have somewhere clean and cozy to sleep when the morning came. He arrived at the door to the last room on the west side at the same time Alfred did.

This had been Tim’s room, back when the manor had not been his yet. Jason knew that much. Why they had decided on booking Jason in here following his injury, he really didn’t know, but he felt a strange rush of familiarity at the sight of the bed – covered in plain white sheets to make spotting bleed-throughs from his flank easier – the beside drawer – filled to the brim with medical supplies and reading material – and the chair next to it – now occupied by a tiny kitty whose short, grey fur glimmered silver in the moonlight falling through the half-open curtains. For better or for worse, this had been his temporary home for the last two weeks and despite all the reasons why staying here sounded like a colossally stupid idea, it had felt safe and comfortable enough. Until this night at least.

Alfred had just finished sweeping up the last bit of dirt dragged into the room by heavy boots when a shadow appeared on the window. A quick swish with the flashlight confirmed the presence of a bright-blue V and Jason breathed a quick sigh of relief. He wouldn’t have put it past Bruce to come back here tonight. How low had he fallen that finding Dick creeping outside of his window was actually a _good_ thing?

Alfred put aside the broom and went to open the window. “I do hope you are not about to drag fresh muck into this room, Master Grayson.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” Somehow Jason found it a lot easier to believe that man had descended from apes as he watched his older brother hanging from the ledge above the glass with one arm while removing his boots with the other. He swung into the room and landed with a soft thud of naked feet on fluffy carpet and that ridiculous ever-lasting grin on his face. “Just finished a full round. All sensors and cameras operational.”

That was quite possibly the first piece of indisputably good news he had had all night. He wanted to say something, some quip or another, but all of a sudden he felt drained, beaten. The clock on the wall told him that they had barely reached three in the morning, but he felt as if it were nine already. His left hand was lead, his side was on fire and the rest of him suddenly felt at least five degrees cooler than anyone had any right to feel. He snatched the plain grey pyjamas off the bed and made a turn for the bathroom. Somehow, he had a feeling this was going to be a terrible attempt at restful sleep. The sooner he started, the better.

“You two feel free to keep on combing over the manor. I’ve had enough for tonight.”

***

In his dreams, the city was on fire. The flames burned bright orange in the dark of the night, licking at the clouds and evaporating what little comforting rain had dared falling in a feeble attempt to extinguish the inferno. The Clock Tower was rubble, as were Jason’s safe-houses in the Diamond District, Burnley, Bleake, Miagani and Founders (but none in the Coventry, because the Coventry was very definitely not safe in Jason’s eyes and never would be as far as Jason was concerned). Dick’s safe-houses were fine, but his apartment was ashes. He was fairly certain the only reason why the Drake Villa and Tim’s safe-houses were still untouched was because the former had been sitting abandoned ever since Jack and Janet Drake had died and the latter were rented under very carefully constructed fake identities. And Wayne—no—Drake Manor...

Drake Manor was a battlefield of broken glass in the dark, the motion sensors around it and the turrets on its roof now utterly useless. There were shouts in the main hall, but they sounded like laughter. A familiar, insane laughter that confirmed that this was all his fault and his fault only. The men who were laughing wore white masks, lined with fake green hair, but they might as well have been the real deal. He was surrounded by a murder of insane clowns, ready to tear _him_ apart.

The body was still as it was pushed underwater, both legs and one arm useless thanks to the casts, the remaining arm kept deliberately still. He was conserving his energy, holding his breath, trying not to panic. A smart strategy and perfectly executed, but it was ruined when the laughing clowns dragged him from the water, pressed the short, black rod into his hip and lit it up in a spark of bright blue. The body jerked, the mouth screamed and the cry of pain echoed off every surface, every inch of the hall, drilling into his brain, seemingly endless, until the head was pushed in the water again.

He rushed forward, dragging him from the ice cold liquid before taking out the clown with his own instrument of torture. He hoped he felt it. Every hit, every sting, every arch, every second of agony Jason had suffered. Only once they were all down did his rage recede. He turned around sharply and froze on the spot.

Those glacial blue eyes were wide with fear, the marred face pale with terror, the hand trembling around a shard of hideous brown glass too close, _far too close_ to his carotid artery.

 _No. No, no, no, no_. Thin lips trembling around choked words, the glass pressing closer, too close.

“Jason!” _Don’t do it! For the love of God, don’t do it!_ What else could he do but pray? His body was frozen stiff. His feet refused to run. His arms refused to reach. He was helpless again, just as he had been the first time. There never should have been a first time and there certainly should never have been a second, yet here they were.

_Stay the hell away from me! Not again! Never again—_

The hand pressed down hard before swiping sharply to the right. Blood sprayed onto his armor, thick and hot, burning straight through the titanium coat and the tri-weave polymer, burning into his skin, branding him with a mark of his own. At last, his feet obeyed and he rushed forward instantly, pressing one gloved hand to the wound that just kept on gushing and gushing, through his fingers, through his gloves, draining the life from this boy.

His _son_.

 “Jason! Stay with me!”

“Why should I?” The words were accompanied by a dark grin that warped the barbaric brand on his cheek from a prominent scar into a gaping pit of torn skin and flesh, crudely cut and hanging from the face – handsome despite all its scars – in strips of cold meat. “It was this or Arkham or Blackgate. _You’re_ not gonna get me. _He’s_ not gonna get me... Not again... Won’t let...”

“Jason!” His hand pressed harder, but the blood had already stopped flowing. It was everywhere now. Everywhere but in the body it belonged to. Dear _God_ , the blood was everywhere! His hands, his cowl, his cape, the floor... “No...” The eyes had grown cold as the blocks of ice they took their beautiful color from, so vibrant in the light, so pale and haunting in the shadow, and now dead.

_Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. DEAD. **DEAD.**_

“Jason...”

The pain started deep in his chest, crawling through his bones inch by inch, from the tips of his toes to the tips of his fingers, buried in a shock of over-long black hair and pressed to a back that had already born too much weight long before they had met for the first time. It forced tears from his eyes and a loud howl from his throat, no saner than the laughter that had been echoing through the manor minutes ago. The world was black and heavy all around him, yet he could see _him_ clearly, grinning from the face of every downed thug, laughing and laughing and laughing.

_Your fault, Bats. All your fault. Excellent job, though! Todders would be proud! I know I am._

“Bruce?!”

He didn’t want to look up. He didn’t want to lift his head from where it rested against Jason’s cheek, hiding his scars from the rest of the world, desperately holding out for a hint of a breath, a fragment of sound, a glimmer of hope.

“Bruce... What have you done?!”

“It wasn’t me.” At last, he managed to force himself to look up into the azure blue eyes of his eldest. For once, there was no smile on Dick’s face, not a hint of softness. A black-gloved hand was thrust in front of his face and he froze at the sight of the small, glimmering device in its palm.

“Yes, it was _you_! Don’t lie to me, you bastard!” Suddenly, the hands were on his collar, dragging him up and away. Away from the body that had slowly started to grow colder in his hands. Away from his son.

“No!” He couldn’t leave him. He couldn’t leave Jason. He couldn’t—

The fist landed hard in his blood-stained face. “You killed my little brother!”

“Again!” Robin added as he swung his staff around and right against the back of Bruce’s knees, without a single sign of mercy in the sea green-blue of his youngest son’s eyes. “Wasn’t enough you got him killed once, was it?!” The second hit sent him to the ground in pain.

“We were finally getting him back,” Dick spat at him before bringing his escrima stick down hard. “We were finally getting him back and you had to go and get him killed, you selfish bastard!”

His vision swam as the stick hit him another half-dozen times. Barbara looked at him in utter disgust from where she was sitting in her wheel chair, crippled because of him. “To think that I tried to comfort you after Crane gassed you! I should have thanked him!”

More hits from the staff. More hits from the sticks. He closed his eyes to breathe deeply for a moment. When he opened them again, his children were gone.

Barbara. Tim. Dick. _Jason_... all gone. All gone and dead because of him. He could feel it in his heart. The bitter emptiness that only the death of one’s children could leave and that would never ever fill. Like a candle without a wick that would never burn again.

_Master Bruce? Master Bruce!_

“Alfred...” He forced himself to look up once more and found himself paralyzed at the sight that greeted him.

Alfred was standing in front of him, a picture of poised grace and ever-lasting serenity and comfort, tall and towering in a way he hadn’t been since Bruce had been eight years old. To his left and right, his mother and father were looking down on him, their faces blank except for the spatter of blood from the wounds that had killed them.

“How could you, Master Bruce?” Alfred sounded absolutely heart-broken. Jason had always been his favorite. He would never have said it out loud, but it was true nonetheless. “After all the poor boy had already been through, all you brought to him was pain and fear and death. You are a disappointment of a Wayne. A spoiled, _selfish_ disappointment of a Wayne. I wish it had been you instead of him.”

“He was your son,” mother cried and the sound tore his heart to pieces. “Bruce... what kind of monster have you become to _kill your own son?_! I wish I had never given birth to you!”

“You are not our son,” father agreed. “You are a disgrace of a human being, a monster! I despise you, Bruce.”

***

“Master Bruce! Master Bruce, wake up! Sir, wake up, please!”

The first gulp of air in his lungs stung like fire. The second choked and froze him at the same time, as if someone had poured liquid nitrogen down his trachea. It was years of carefully honed reflexes and routines more than the actual shock that made him sit upright in an instant, scanning the room to assess the situation.

He was not in the manor, not on Crest Hill. This was the master bedroom in Bracken, and although it was not even half the size of his old chambers in Wayne Manor, it felt too big, too empty, too cold. The curtains were almost completely closed, but judging from the slither of bright light that fell into the room, it was late in the morning, if not possibly noon already. There was no suit on his body, no blood on his hands. There were no clown-faced intruders, no furious Dick, Tim and Barbara, no dead parents and – most importantly – no dead Jason. Then again, this was not the manor.

“Jason—“

“—is alive and as safe as he can possibly be, surrounded by his brothers and sister-in-law,” Alfred interrupted him quickly. “I sincerely hope you understand just how lucky the poor boy is to have survived your foolish and irresponsible actions.”

That stung more than the cold air in his lungs and Bruce turned his head slowly, only to come face to face with the vision from his nightmares. Maybe ninety-nine percent of it had been made up, a figment of his imagination, but this was real. Alfred was real and there was a fury and agony in the intense stare he cast back at him that Bruce had not seen since he had first taken on the Joker all those years ago on that fateful Christmas Eve.

“I never meant for him to get hurt, Alfred! I had only wanted to see him.” He needed him to understand that he had not made the decision lightly. Bruce never made any decision lightly. There was a terrifying power that came with a name as old, rich and prestigious as ‘Wayne’ and there was an even more terrifying responsibility that came with being Batman – or his Ghost. He had _never_ , not once, underestimated that power. _Think before you speak and act and you shall never have to regret a thing._ Alfred had drilled that lesson into him since before Bruce could remember and he had lived by it every day of his life.

Yes, his first instinct upon finding out that Jason was still alive had been to go and find him, to help him, to heal him. Jason was his son, after all, by law and – as far as Bruce was concerned – in all other ways that mattered. He had wanted nothing more than to find him, to protect him, to bring him back home, but in the end, what he wanted was secondary to more pressing matters. There had been a city to save, another son and a very good friend of his to rescue from a far more immediate threat, and then, after the damage had been done and his identity revealed to the world, there had been only one choice left.

He had not made the choice lightly. Every day away from them had been a struggle, a painful ordeal to push through. He had watched them from afar, worrying about Dick’s increasing struggles at BPD, about Jason’s disturbing modus operandi, about Barbara maintaining her base in the Clock Tower, despite the building having been compromised, about Tim rebuilding the manor when he knew that it would only attract trouble. But no trouble could have measured up to the disaster they would have been lined up for if he had reunited with them. Bruce Wayne was a walking target. Batman was a walking target. He was doing them a favor by not being either. He was a ghost.

Until Jason had decided otherwise.

Thanksgiving stood out clear in his memory, not because of the beating he had received or the fact that his new base had effectively been compromised, but because of the unveiled, undiluted rage and pain in Jason’s voice, and the cold shock and agony in Dick and Tim. His hope that – just perhaps – his sons might not have changed much in his absence after all had been chipped when Tim, who was normally so peaceful and quiet, had unleashed his full fury on him after Jason had left. Then it had cracked when Barbara and Dick, who were usually so supportive and cheerful, had all but shunned him for the weeks to follow. It had finally been broken when Jason, who had always been so strong, so tenacious, so indomitably determined, had cowered before him, shrinking back in terror and raising that shard of brown to his throat in uncompromising _panic_.

Jason had never panicked before. He had dreaded, feared and raged, but he had _never_ panicked. The sight had been utterly surreal, but at the same time it had shaken him to the core, to the point where he could still _feel_ it in his soul.

“I am his father, Alfred. He may not have my blood, but he is my son in every way that matters.”

“Unfortunately, he _is_ , in more ways than is healthy for him.” There was no warmth left in Alfred’s voice. Gone was the friendly and caring undertone that usually lay beneath every syllable. When Bruce looked up, he was met with a stare that could have melted metal. “You, on the other hand, are no more his _father_ than Willis Todd ever was.”

“Willis Todd was an abusive, self-centered criminal with not a single ounce of regard for his son’s welfare!”

“And the man in front of me right now is a manipulative, self-centered vigilante with not a single ounce of _thought_ for his son’s massive, life-long and omnipresent trauma, much less a single _shred_ of _respect_ for his omnipresent struggle to overcome said trauma and the enormous progress he has made with his siblings in spite of it all!”

Alfred tugged at the lapels of his jacket, smoothing them out as if he had just come out of a brawl, then reached for one of the two bags that had been dropped in the middle of the room in a hurry. He removed a lemon-colored cloth and a lemon-scented cleaner and set out to work. His gaze remained fixated on the surfaces he worked on, as he started polishing the room clockwise from the right side of the door, from the top to the bottom.

“Master Todd spent fourteen years surrounded by people who either wanted him hurt or dead, or were happy to pretend that he did not exist, that he was worth less than nothing. Whatever sense of safety and belonging we – not just you, but Master Grayson, Miss Gordon, Mister Fox and I, as well – had been able to instill in him in the twenty-two months he spent with us, was annihilated when he was tortured by an insane murderer for fifteen months, to the point where his mind and body have taken _irreparable_ damage. Then he had to spend more than three years alone with nothing but his pain and grief and rage, because he thought everyone would be indifferent at best or outright murderously hostile at him at worst for the fact that it was a silly mistake of his that had landed him in the Joker’s hands in the first place, all while the monster Joker had made of him kept on feeding on that rage and misery. And then, after he finally managed to break free from all this blackness, the person who promised to help him simply up and vanished from his life and left him to deal with a city full of people that wanted him dead and the fresh packs of rats creeping in to tear it apart. Any ordinary person would have simply put an end to their misery right then and there, but Master Todd? He thought about it. He _almost_ did it numerous times, but only almost. Instead he somehow picked what was left of himself back up, glued and stitched it together as best as he could, and started defending this city, this family – neither of which he thought still wanted him – with every last ounce of life he had in him. It has taken Master Grayson, Master Drake, Miss Gordon-Drake and Mister Fox the better part of a year to regain enough of his trust and rebuild enough of his sense of safety and belonging to have him lower his guard even just a little, strike just a little less hard and stay just a little closer, and even that is a miracle, because however horrifying that nightmare you just had must have been, Master Todd still suffers these on a _daily_ basis and _he_ usually wakes up alone in the dark. That moment Master Grayson and Master Drake pulled him from the toxic ruins of ACE Chemicals after he had been mauled and temporarily crippled by a giant, man-eating, formerly human crocodile monster? _That_ moment has brought him more joy and comfort than any second he has spent with you in six years.”

The curtains came open with a sharp swish and Bruce grimaced at the sudden influx of brightness. Not only was it high noon outside – it had snowed while he had been asleep and the white coat that covered the earth reflected the bright light straight back into the sky. Alfred did not seem affected in the least, as he turned off the heater, ripped open the window and snatched the comforter and top sheet from his master’s bed. Bruce instantly felt every hair on his body stand up like a soldier on parade as the icy winds swept through the room and cleansed it off the stale, heavy air that he had been shrouded in. Alfred did not spare him a single glance as he dumped the bedding in a nearby hamper and resumed his cleaning frenzy on the other side of Bruce’s bed.

“You have three wonderful, amazing children, Master Bruce. Four, if you count Miss Gordon-Drake and I hope to God that you do, but I am disappointed to say you are not worthy of any of them. You had their trust and respect at one point – even Master Todd’s for a brief while, incredible as it may sound – but trust and respect should never be given freely. They should be based on a parent’s performance and _your_ performance, with all due _respect_ , has been downright abysmal lately. I do not doubt that you love them. On the contrary. I believe you love them with every fiber of your heart, every grain of your soul, but for a man who shows a profound understanding of the necessity of giving criminals more than broken bones to think twice about their life choices, you seem to be suffering from a catastrophic inability to acknowledge that people need more than physical integrity to live.”

 “I know—“

“You do not _, Bruce_!” At last, Alfred turned around to him once more and Bruce shuddered at the sight. Alfred’s lips were pressed into a thin line, his eyes narrowed in cold wrath and sheer contempt. It was not an expression he had ever seen on Alfred. It was not one that he had believed him capable of. “If you did, you would not be putting your own selfish desire to see your son _before_ his obligate _need_ to work through his own issues, piece by piece, one day at a time, ever-careful not to shatter what fragile pieces he has put together already. If you did, you would not have answered his self-sacrifice of _forcing_ himself to deal with you, despite how much it hurts him, so that you and his siblings could regain some measure of comfort and happiness from being in contact again, with a kick to a badly injured shoulder and the immediate condemnation of something he _is aware_ is an issue, but _simply does not have_ the mental or emotional resources to deal with right now. If you did, you would not have betrayed the trust your other children put in you by letting you into their home, so close to their completely helpless, badly wounded, traumatized little brother, by going behind their backs and undermining their entire safety net. And I do not care how you intended for your plan to play out,” Alfred interjected quickly. “It does not matter how you intended it to end. It does not even matter how it _did_ end. What matters, is that you have demonstrated so little trust and respect for _your own children_ , your dearest parents – God rest their souls – would roll in their graves if they knew. And to be perfectly honest, if it were not for the fact that I have spent more than half my life caring for you, and if it were not for the fact that I do – as a consequence – consider you _my_ son in any and all ways that truly matter, I would not even be bothering to explain this to you now. I would be at Drake Manor, and I would gladly take Master Todd’s pain, Master Dick’s sorrow at seeing him in such pain, and Master Drake and Miss Gordon-Drake’s fury at everything that caused it – including you – over this casket of a house that you now call ‘home’ any day.”

Bruce watched in silent, abject horror as old shoulders relaxed and slumped slowly in relief. His own shoulders and back felt like someone had slammed hooks into them, drawing them closer and tenser with every second. He felt about two inches high and yet a thousand tons heavy, crushed underneath a force that was stronger than any law of physics known to man. He wanted to speak, but every thought in his mind evaporated the moment he had found the words to express it. His tongue was a dry, over-sized sponge in his mouth.

“Now, if you will excuse me, there are several more rooms in this coffin that need to be cleaned up and I am fairly confident your suit will require maintenance as well.” He watched on silently as Alfred retrieved both bags from the center of the room, put the cleaning supplies back into the plastic bag, and dumped the other one – non-descript brown paper – right into Bruce’s lap. Whatever was inside it was hot enough to make him feel as if his legs were on fire. “I would have bothered to prepare a proper breakfast for you, Master Bruce,” Alfred stated with the same dead-pan face he usually wore, “but I had the choice between shopping for fresh groceries and helping Master Todd through a particularly rough six hours of nightmares following the events of last night. I do hope you will forgive me for having clearly defined and _sane_ priorities. Please do enjoy your meal.”

And just like that, Alfred turned on his heels and left. Bruce stared at the open door, too lost for words to call after him and too paralyzed by the knowledge, deep down in the most important corners of his mind and soul, that Alfred had been _right_ , to even move the hot bag off his legs. Only when a particularly vicious gust of icy air dumped a briefcase worth of snow on the carpet and slammed the door shut with a bang sharper than any gunshot, only then did he finally get up and close the window. Somehow, that only made the chill worse and he suppressed a shiver as he climbed back onto the bed to see what Alfred had left for him. Somehow, the idea that the exaggerated temperature of the food had been an accident seemed increasingly unlikely.

There were two long, cylindrical bundles in the bag and he retrieved one of them carefully. The grease was already showing through the white paper wrapped around the food, but it was the smell that crept into his nose as he carefully peeled back the layers that made his hands freeze instantly and his brain right after them. He remembered that smell from many overly long nights on patrol, even though he had never had any of these bundles for himself. Too much fat, too much sugar, too hot for immediate consumption. Jason had used to call him a wimp before digging in, devouring his food as if his life depended on it, to the point where Bruce was convinced the boy was going to lose a finger sooner or later.

For today’s breakfast, Alfred had gotten him chili dogs.

 


	18. Better Late Than Never

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some wounds take months or even years to heal, but in the end they still do. In the end, 'late' is better than 'never'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks, we’re finally getting to the C in the H/C. I know I seem to be physically incapable of writing anything that’s fluff AND Jason-related without heaping on the angst and there's a lot of that to go around in this chapter as well, but at least he’s not in immediate danger to life and limb this time, so… yay for improvement?  
> Also, more Dick and Jason brotherly bonding feels. Kind of sad I didn't get this out two days earlier, but oh well. Better late than never, right?

Sleep. Noun. The natural, periodic suspension of consciousness during which the powers of the body are restored.

Merriam-fucking-Webster was a goddamn liar. For Jason, sleep had hardly ever been naturally periodic, much less restoring.

At first, sleep had been that weird, irregularly enforced state of helplessness he would either sink into when he was too exhausted, or force himself into when mommy insisted, and he had never known for certain whether he would wake up from it again, or whether Willis might actually make good on his threat of taking that gun he owned and putting an end to the two worst mistakes of his life. He had refused to call him ‘daddy’ because even at the tender ages of seven and lower he had understood that that was not how daddies treated their kids. He had also known what a gunshot wound looked like as early as the age of four. Park Row was a rough neighborhood. His brain had been more than happy to combine the two thoughts into one cheerful image of his own brains splattered all over the dirty old dry wall of that rat’s nest they called an apartment, right next to mommy’s.

_Suspension of consciousness my ass._

It had remained an enforced state of helplessness even after Willis and Catherine had gone. Really, about the only thing that had changed was that he didn’t have to worry about the possibility of sudden death by gunshot anymore. Instead, he had to worry about the possibility of sudden death by gunshot, stabbing, bludgeoning, suffocation or cold, and – even worse – the possibility of waking up to being dragged out of one of his hideouts by some guy in a uniform, to be taken to some interrogation room or holding cell with conveniently broken cameras where he could ‘wait’ for Child Protective Services to come pick him up. Whether they really were too busy to send somebody over to pick up all those homeless kids or whether the officers had ‘accidentally forgotten’ to make the call was anybody’s guess and depended on sheer luck of the draw. Either way, more options, more nightmare fuel.

Things had gotten gradually better when he had lived at the manor. He had slowly crossed a few manners of death off the list – he doubted anyone could ever be _cold_ in the manor, Batman _hated_ guns, and he was _pretty_ sure Alfred would murder Bruce if he were to mess up a perfectly fine manor bed by turning its occupant into a bloody corpse – but even then it had taken him a couple of months to stop replacing ‘cop’ with ‘vigilante’ or ‘billionaire’ in his head and finally surrender to the idea that he was actually _safe_ in this strange place. By that point, his body no longer remembered what ‘natural’ fatigue felt like. There was sheer physical exhaustion and there was deliberately chosen bedtime. He was no longer wary of falling and being asleep, but outside of a few precious days that now seemed like they had happened to some other kid, he had continued to wake up just as achingly tired as usual. How some people like Barb and Alfred managed to roll out of bed feeling perfectly energized and happy every morning was a timeless mystery to him.

And then Joker had happened. Joker and the Arkham Knight, and whatever nightmares he had had as a child had suddenly seemed laughable and cute by comparison. It had taken him a stupidly long time to figure out why, but eventually it had finally clicked: one half of them were not nightmares. They were memories, things that really had been done to him, things he really had done to others. The other half... he wasn’t entirely sure how to classify them, other than his mind projecting the most likely outcome of whatever had defined his latest period of awareness the most. Given that likelihood was a projection based on his own personal, previous experiences in life, he really shouldn’t have been surprised that what he got out of it was enough to leave him reeling and paranoid each time he woke up.

Well, he wasn’t surprised, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

So far, he had woken up screaming – and if it hadn’t been for the others: flailing – six times, following this fantastic start to this new fucking year. In one nightmare, he had woken up not in the manor but back in the Asylum, _under_ the Asylum, in a tiny, tiled cell covered in blood and dirt, with no one but a horde of mad, laughing clowns for companion. In another, Batman had finished mopping the main hall’s floor with clown-faced thugs before approaching him and bringing the cattle prod down again and again and again until Jason had finally found the courage to sink that shard of glass deep enough to matter. In a third, he had woken up in this very room, with Alfred, Tim, Dick and Barbara chatting away just outside his door, while Ghost had crawled in through his window, presented him with one of the now useless motion sensors from the grounds surrounding the manor, and then taken him straight to Blackgate’s psychiatric ward, where everyone had expressed their sincere disappointment over the abolishment of capital punishment in 2007. He couldn’t quite recall what the other three times had been about, but judging from the looks on Tim’s and Dick’s faces when they had woken him up, it was probably better that way.

This time, the world shifted into focus slowly instead of in a sudden rush of light, colors and sounds like it usually did. He couldn’t remember what this last nightmare had been about either, only that it left him feeling frozen to the core, as if all warmth had been sapped from his body while he had been asleep. With a deep groan, Jason burrowed deeper into his blanket and took a look around.

He was still in the manor, in the last room on the western side of the south wing. Judging from the glow of soft orange falling through the half-open curtains, it was time for sunset and the clock on the wall confirmed his suspicions. The thermostat light was still off and the desk in the corner next to the window was still littered with half-finished candles, proving that the power was still out, even though there was a hand-written note from Tim on the bed-side table stating that he was going to be out for about half an hour to supervise the power guys who had come around to fix the damn cables. Given that ‘half an hour’ had been over and done more than twenty minutes ago and the power was still out, things were probably not going as smoothly as planned. If Tim had used his brain and ordered an express delivery on a back-up generator using his now de facto ownership of Wayne Enterprises for leverage, than they probably had a better chance of that arriving long before the cables were fixed. On the ledge outside the window, a thick coat of snow that had definitely not been there in 2016 glistened in the dying sunlight and Jason scowled at the sight. If that weird spell of suspiciously high temperatures they had apparently had over the last week of the year had passed, then that at least would explain the cold. And the fresh pins and needles in his shoulders. With a quick string of Spanish cursing, Jason reached for his phone next to the note and checked the trackers.

_All green. All good. Small silver linings._

“Jaybird?”

It had been nothing more than a murmur, but in his battle-tuned ears, even a whisper was a gunshot. He lifted his head quickly, fully expecting to have to turn all the way to the door, only to find his gaze freeze halfway through.

On the other side of the room, directly opposite the end of his bed, a small, ivory-cushioned canapé – most likely from the guest room on the other side of the hall – had been set up against the wall, facing his bed. The figure on top of it was almost completely covered by a thick, crimson blanket, but the sleep-addled, azure eyes peeking out from underneath a shock of fine, black hair were more than enough to identify his roommate.

How he had not noticed Dick’s presence during his cursory scan of the room before was a riddle to Jason, although he was ready to file it away under lingering fatigue and PTSD-induced moments of complete obliviousness. He only had them occasionally – a second here and there when things just flew completely under his radar and he could have walked head first into a wall, had he had the functional feet to walk with and a wall to walk into – but even ‘occasionally’ was too often. A second was all it took sometimes. He couldn’t afford to make mistakes like that. Not again.

“Jason, are you ok?”

This time, there was no fatigue in the voice and he wasn’t surprised to find Dick suddenly sitting up straight. The sleepiness was gone from his eyes, replaced by the sharp, analytical alertness Bruce had drilled into each of them. Somehow, Dick’s hair had magically flattened itself out into the same ready-for-the-catwalk state it was usually in, and if it hadn’t been for the blanket wrapped firmly around him, nobody would ever have known that he had only just woken up a few seconds ago. Jason rolled his eyes at the injustice of it all before focusing on his phone once more.

“Just peachy. Get back to your beauty sleep, Goldie.”

“You’re freezing.”

It wasn’t a question. Then again, Jason wasn’t surprised. He could feel the hairs on his exposed forearms stand up like soldiers on parade, creating goose bumps all over his skin. It would have been hard to miss for someone trained by the World’s Greatest Detective. What did surprise him was the feeling of his own white blanket being torn out from underneath his arms in one swift motion, leaving him to yelp at the sudden rush of downright _cold_ air in the room. “Dick, what the fuck—“

“Please don’t lie to me, Jason.” Dick tossed the blanket onto the canapé carelessly before untangling himself from his own cover and draping it over Jason in one quick throw. In comparison to his own bedding, the red blanket was a cocoon of warmth, which was not unreasonable given who it had been wrapped around before. Dick Grayson was a human furnace. And judging from the fast, methodical movements as he tucked the edges under the mattress, this was not the first blanket-switcheroo he had pulled in recent times. “I understand if you don’t want to talk, but please don’t lie to me, okay? I’ll go get you a comforter to go on top of that.”

Whatever reply his brain had been trying to come up with was made null and void as Dick turned on his heels and left in search of more bedding to bury him under. _Great._ In a best case scenario he had just sent him into full-blown, over-bearing big-brother-mode. Worst case, he had pissed him off royally. He was still trying to figure out which of the two would be worse and how he would justify a full-out shouting match to Barbara and Tim when Dick came back with what looked to be the biggest duvet in the manor, in the same shade as the canapé. Logically, he knew that the only difference the additional layer of fabric would be able to provide would be to trap the heat under that blanket a little longer. Subconsciously, he already felt a little warmer.

“Thanks.”

Dick’s hands froze over the edge he had been smoothing out in an instant. Judging by the look on his face, his brain was ping-ponging between confusion and suspicion. “Did you just... thank me?”

“I could yell at you to leave me the fuck alone and throw in some bilingual cursing if it would make you feel better.”

For a few seconds, Jason could have sworn he could hear crickets chirp in the silence around them. Then, as if a black cloud had suddenly lifted, Dick broke into the loudest, most cheerful bout of laughter he had heard in a long time. Given everything that had happened over the last two weeks, Jason wouldn’t have been shocked if it had been the loudest, most cheerful laughter in the manor, period. By the time he was done, Dick had reclaimed the discarded blanket, wrapped it firmly around himself and hunched down on the chair next to Jason’s bed. ‘The reading chair’, as Jason had come to think of it, since this was where he had usually found his siblings plowing through their ‘bedtime stories for dear wounded brother’ project.

“Thank you, Jason.” Dick grinned at him – a toothy, honest and sincere Grayson grin if there had ever been one. “God, you have no idea how much I needed that.”

“Rough night, huh?” He hadn’t noticed it before, having been too pre-occupied with his own issues, but Dick looked like hell. Underneath the perfect-out-of-bed hair and behind the bright smile, exhaustion had crept into every inch of him. His body language was all wrong. This wasn’t Dick. The Dick Grayson he knew was far more theatrical, show-boating, always emotional, always energetic, not hunched down like he was about to fall asleep on his feet. He wasn’t usually hiding from the world either, whether it be by means of chair, couch, blanket or a combination thereof, and he certainly didn’t have those shadows under his eyes.

“Understatement of the year.”

Jason snorted at that. “It’s New Year’s, Dickie. I wouldn’t count the decapitated chickens just yet.”

Dick’s lips curled into a slightly repulsed sneer. “You always had a talent for turning the most harmless sentences into nightmare fuel, you know that?”

Jason merely shrugged his shoulder. If that was all it took to creep out Dick Grayson these days, then Mr. Perfect had gone fucking soft while he had been out of town. On his phone, numbers and status messages flew by in rapid succession, proving that the manor was once more secure. The little system auto-diagnosis program Barb had thrown together over the last couple of hours worked well enough for starters, but even working from his phone instead of his laptop he could see the loopholes, the chinks in the proverbial armor that she had not yet had time to correct. If he was going to be awake, at the very least, he could be awake and helpful.

“I really missed your yelling and swearing, you know.”

His fingers froze over the touch screen. “What the fuck?”

Somehow, the stare Dick had fixated on the screen was both infinitely intense and yet a thousand miles away. It took him a second to figure out where he had seen that before. Once he did, all the alarm bells in his head went off. This was PTSD 101. What the hell had happened to Dick?

“You hated my swearing,” Jason mentioned as casually as he could while keeping his eyes on the screen. One of the many things he had learned during his militia days: treat traumatized soldiers like puppies in training. Don’t reward the destructive behavior. Lead by example. “You’d roll your eyes at me and chide me like a little kid every time I so much as mouthed the letter F, and if I recall correctly, your precise words the first time I yelled at you were ‘shorter fuse than a box of matches’.”

That earned him a quick, sharp wince in return, but at least the thousand yards stare was gone from Dick’s eyes. “You _do_ have a shorter fuse than a box of matches,” Dick insisted, “though I should probably have worded that better back then and I probably shouldn’t keep on talking about it right now—”

“Why? Do you think I’m made of fucking glass?!” He slammed the phone down hard on the bedside table and watched Dick flinch once more. Whatever nostalgia and melancholy had been left in his expression instantly gave way to alertness. “Is that it? I mean, I know I didn’t exactly do myself any favors with that stunt down in the main hall, but is that what you think of me?! That I’m so weak and pathetic you have to tip-toe around me like you’re walking through a minefield?!”

“I wasn’t—”

“Newsflash, _Dick_!” It was the least original insult in the history of Grayson insults, but right now, it was the only thing his gray matter could come up with. Whatever sense of finesse he might have applied to the situation in other circumstances was lost beneath the rage. This was among the top ten of discussions that he had definitely _not_ wanted to have while stuck in this house. The slight stabs of pain in his flank as he carefully crossed his arms in front of his chest only underlined the ever-present, lurking feeling of utter defenselessness. “You can feel free to lob whatever insults you want at me. I can assure you my brain has already come up with worse alternatives sometime over the last five-and-a-half years!”

“And now you’re trying to goad me into making the nightmare real so you can feel vindicated in your belief that it’s better, safer, to be alone, rather than to be surrounded by something as unpredictable as people. Is that it?” The soft lines of Dick’s face had hardened into the same stony expression that was normally reserved for Bruce. Jason had only seen him like that a few times, but the reason had always been the same. Dick Grayson was pissed. _Good._ Anger he could deal with. Unfortunately, Dick was never one to get dragged into a long match of furious punches. Instead, Dick was more of an emotional hit-and-run. The harshness was gone just as quickly as it had come. “Jason, we’ve been down this road before, remember? Back when you were fourteen. I didn’t hate you then and I don’t hate you now, so if yelling at me makes you feel better, then go ahead. I won’t yell back. I’d rather have you screaming and throwing punches at me than to wake up and find you gone.”

Jason watched, eyes still narrowed and fingers still balled into fists as much as he could manage – fuck his broken right hand – as Dick retreated back onto the canapé and curled up under the sheet like an over-sized hedgehog. Part of him wanted nothing more than to drag himself out of bed and into that wheelchair, roll over there, and then punch him. The rest of him felt about two inches high.

This was going to be soooo much fun once Tim came back...

***

In the end, it wasn’t Tim who relieved Dick of his unscheduled sentry duty. It was Barb.

_Fuck. My. Life._

True to form, it took Barbara all of thirty seconds to figure out just what had transpired between them, even though Dick was soundly asleep on the canapé and Jason did his best to bury his face in the phone. Somehow he had managed to fuck up this code five times over the last two hours, which was definitely a new record. Any other person would have taken one look at the anger painted on every inch of his face and then decided to get the fuck out, but this was Barbara. He could see her out of the corner of his left eye, resting in her wheelchair right next in front of his own, silent and unmoving as a statue, and even though he couldn’t see her eyes, he could feel that she was looking at him.

It took him all of two minutes to lose his patience. “If you have something to say, Babs, just say it. Go on. Chew me out for yelling at Goldie.”

“Power’s going to be out for another day at least.” _That_ he had not expected. Curiosity won over tactical thinking and he looked up fully expecting to find himself facing Batgirl’s most furious and disappointed stare. Instead, Barbara’s face was blank and her voice barely more than a whisper. “They damaged several cables, and the snow and the cold are impeding the repairs. New back-up generator should arrive by noon tomorrow, but until then we’re stuck with candles and the human heater over there. And if you yelled at him, then trust me: you did him a favor.”

He followed her little nod in Dick’s direction and couldn’t help the stab of envy at seeing him still sound asleep. How Dick did it, Jason would never understand, but somehow he had always managed to go from deep asleep, to just awake enough to figure out who was approaching, and back to deep asleep in a matter of seconds. If the person approaching happened to be friendly.

“Do you know why he insisted on staying right here, in this room, even during Alfred’s and Tim’s shift?”

“Because he knows it’s the closest he can get to me without getting punched in the teeth,” Jason stated as a matter of fact. It was an easy question. If Dick had a spirit animal, it was undoubtedly an octopus, and if it had been anyone but the short fuse of the family stuck in this bed, he would have been winding himself around his charge in one of those nigh-inescapable Grayson hugs by now.

“That’s the first half of the story,” Barbara acknowledged. “Do you know what’s the other half?”

He shrugged his shoulders and was just about ready to give the loophole-filling code another try when the phone was snatched right out of his hands. The angry sneer on his lips died the moment he saw Barbara’s face. He had seen her angry before. He had seen her sad. He had seen her compassionate.

He had never seen all three at once and the result turned the knot in his stomach to solid ice, even despite the blanket and the comforter. He could have sworn at gunpoint that he was not deliberately trying to upset the others every chance he got, but somehow he still always managed.

“The other half is that you nearly died twice last night, Jason, and one time would have been by your own hand, which begs the question of just how many times you considered it before and just how lucky we are that you are still around.”

With a few quick motions, Barbara stowed the phone away in the backpack hanging from her chair and handed him a box with what looked suspiciously like the fruit-yoghurt-and-walnut mix Alfred had so often prepared for him when he had first arrived at the manor, in desperate need of healthy nutrition after years of hard living on the street.

“For the record, we’re all glad you’re still here. We know it is anything but easy for you and we’re _proud_ that you haven’t given up despite all the crap that has happened, but don’t ever think that you’re the only one who’s plagued by nightmares and PTSD. Losing you was brutal on all of us, but Dick? He’s your older brother and you know he throws himself into any emotional relationship hook, line and sinker. Survivor’s guilt doesn’t even begin to describe what he’s been going through for the last couple of years.”

On the ivory couch, Dick was still locked in deep sleep. Or at least, it would have seemed that way to anybody else. His face was perfectly still and relaxed, his breath even and deep. But Jason knew where to look. Beneath the blanket, Dick’s feet were kicking restlessly at shadows that weren’t there. The pillow that he must have collected when he had gone for the comforter was barely peeking out of the other end, tucked tightly under his chin in a vice-like bear hug.

The _crimson_ pillow.

 “That’s a pillow from my room.”

“Does that surprise you?” The flicker of amusement in Barbara’s eyes as she handed him a spoon to go with his breakfast was small, but it was there nonetheless, buried under layers of fatigue and melancholy. “Sometimes it’s a pillow. Sometimes it’s a blanket. On particularly bad days he just ditches his room entirely and sleeps in yours instead. He’s been doing that every time he’s stayed here ever since that night on Mercy Bridge. Hell, _that_ night we all curled up in your room hoping that you would walk in on us come morning and yell at us to get the fuck out of your little sanctuary.”

“Sleep-over in the dead guy’s bed, huh?” Jason swallowed hard as he finally opened the box and started digging through its contents one spoon at a time. _Alfred’s food. Very definitely safe. Very definitely not poisoned. Almost certainly not containing any medication you didn’t ask for_. “Must have been one hell of a cheerful slumber party.”

“Jason...” Barbara rolled her eyes at him even as she reached for his phone and started fixing the bugs in his lines of code. “I love you like a brother, but sometimes you’re an ass.”

***

If January 1st had been an explosive mess, the week that followed had been the smoldering embers.

Rumors of Joker’s return had hit the city hard and for the first twenty-four hours, that was all they had been. Rumors. The mayor’s office had done its best to downplay the untimely demolition of half a dozen of Gotham’s tallest skyscrapers and the fireworks that had followed as best as they could, and the majority of Gotham’s journalistic murder of eye-pecking crows had been happy to latch onto the easy target. According to Barbara, Jim Gordon now understood why her mother had cheated on him with Jack Daniels and Jim Beam.

Unfortunately, ‘majority’ did not mean ‘all’.

It had been Vicki Vale of course, and Jason took some comfort in the fact that it hadn’t been that bumbling creep Ryder instead, but someone had to have noticed the smaller pieces of the puzzle that had been falling into place. The seemingly random thugs belonging to Penguin’s and Two Face’s crews that had been left strung up on rooftops throughout the city, with their mouths twisted into grotesque smiles and bat symbols painted onto their naked chests in purple dye. The attack on the manor. The very specific list of other dwellings that had been subjected to attempted break-ins and/or arson: the Clock Tower, Wayne Tower, Wayne Plaza, Drake Industries HQ, Panessa Studios, six shoebox-sized apartments rented under the name Jason Todd, and one very definitely not shoebox-sized Blüdhaven apartment under the name of Dick Grayson.

Someone had been gunning for Batman’s sons, trying to see if the new player in town – Ghost – could be tricked into revealing himself, into confirming whether he was just a fear-gas-wielding copycat or the real deal. The manor had been a trap, a set-up, and Bruce had sprung it gloriously. The other buildings had merely been a bonus, icing on the poison cake.

His own safe-houses could go to hell, for all Jason cared. He had others under fake identities. Spending a full day working out a believable cover story for the sudden reappearance of Jason Peter Todd in Gotham after his years of unexplained absence had been a pain on sheer principle, but in the end, it had been easier than expected. If a good lie was based on little truths, then his story was perfect. After all, he really had gone to South America. He really had gotten on the wrong side of a very dangerous gang of murderous thugs. He really had needed years to be ready to return to Gotham. Not necessarily in that order and not necessarily for the reasons they would give to the press, but then again, when had any bat ever been honest with the press? Sure his name was in the headlines of many a Gotham tabloid right now, but they had managed to forget about him just fine within a month the first time around. He doubted it would take much longer this time.

Dick and Tim on the other hand were two entirely different beasts.

Tim, being heir to both Wayne Enterprises and Drake Industries, had seen the worst of it and neither Jason nor Barbara had been surprised to find him kicking ten tons of crap out of every sandbag in the gym after each time he had to tell yet another reporter to get off the manor grounds because that was private property. Blessed be Lucius and his expertly arranged press conference two days in. Even Robins, who had to have learned to put up with a lot of crap, did not have limitless patience.

And Dick... well, if he hadn’t already been practically living at the manor ever since that night at ACE, he certainly was now. On camera, he was all charming smiles of course, and Jason had almost felt sick at just how easily he had played the role of the utterly clueless and distressed spoiled-rich kid caught in the crosshairs. Off camera, though...

Dick had always been restless. Sitting still was not in his nature, silence made him uncomfortable and boredom was a sure-fire way to make him channel all that pent up energy into something destructive, both to himself and his surroundings. For the first two days, steering that energy into more helpful directions had been easy enough. There were many things in the manor that needed fixing – from the installation of new window panes and a new chandelier in the ball room all the way to repairing those exploded floor boards in the south wing, but soon those options had been exhausted and the lack of a proper sparring partner – Tim’s classes had started again and Barb and Jason were both stuck in wheelchairs after all – had not helped. He had thrown himself into his work as Nightwing instead, leaving the manor within five minutes after sunset and not returning until the end of Alfred’s shift at six in the morning, each time coming back looking more miserable and beat than the night before, then sitting down in the reading chair, digging through another book – The Neverending Story, this time – before resigning himself to another six hours of mostly restless sleep on the canapé.

By January 5th, Jason decided he had had just about enough of this sudden, self-destructive streak and he was ready to tear him a new one. He _had_ agreed to wait until after the surprise at dawn that Barbara and Alfred had promised – whatever that was supposed to be. He hated surprises, which Tim quite accurately blamed on early conditioning in Park Row, where ‘surprise’ usually equaled getting robbed, raped or murdered, but he had chosen to give Alfred the benefit of doubt at least. As long as he’d come out of it sane and strong enough to set Dick’s head straight.

In the end, he never got the chance.

It was the sound of an engine – powerful, custom-built, expensive and uncomfortably familiar – that had both him and Barbara look up from the episode of Game of Thrones that had been playing on his laptop at half past five. Why she had decided to switch shifts with Alfred for once was anybody’s guess, but the thought didn’t stick for long. This time, the sensors around the manor sprang to life instantly, setting off two separate alarms and making Barb reach for her escrima sticks instinctively, even as he watched the car roll up to the front patio on the camera feed. It stopped just shy of the gate, just shy of the second round of sensors that would have activated the riot-suppression rounds in the turrets installed on the roof. Jason wasn’t surprised to watch Ghost state at them in disgust, before casting a long, perfectly blank look straight at the camera.

What did surprise him was that he moved for the back of the car instead of the front of the house. The passenger compartment opened in one fluid motion, revealing none other than Nightwing. The obvious burn and shrapnel damage to his suit and the singed fringes of his hair really did not leave much room for guessing games. With one last look at the camera above the front door, Ghost pushed him gently towards the gate, then got back into the car and left the same way he had come.

“I’ll go get him.” It was not a suggestion. Barbara was out of the room before he had time to answer. One by one, the motion sensors flared up again, confirming that the batmobile was indeed driving away from the manor. Only once it had passed the last line of sensors half a mile out did Jason close the laptop and move to join the others in the main hall.

Tim – who had arrived just forty minutes earlier – and Alfred were already waiting by the door as Dick came waltzing through the door, the smile on his face just slightly crooked as he tried to downplay the concerned questions and remarks about his physical state with the same kind of goofy, self-deprecating stabs he always employed do deflect worry and suspicion. As self-defense mechanisms went, it was usually very effective.

It was particularly effective at pissing Jason off.

“Cut the crap, Dick, and just tell us what the fuck happened.” He wasn’t in the mood for this. Whatever silly excuse Dick was about to dish out to the others, he didn’t want to hear it. “And don’t you dare to lie to me!”

“Jason—“

“It’s okay, Barb.” The smile had gone from Dick’s voice and from his face as well. The mask came off next, and without the black polymer to hide them, the dark circles around Dick’s eyes were all too painfully obvious. “I’ve been following leads on this new ‘Joker’ for the last four days. Got a promising one today, figured I’d go in before the trail runs cold, and ran right into a trap. Bruce must have been tailing me for a while, because he was right on my heels.”

For a few long moments, all Jason could do was stare at him in utter disbelief. Then, finally, the rage crawled from his gut through his throat and onto his tongue. “You. Fucking! MORON!” He accentuated the yell with his left hand slamming down hard on the wheelchair’s armrest and earned a flinch from everyone but Alfred in response. “You went after the Joker? On your own? And you didn’t even bother to fucking tell us?!” This could not be happening. He rubbed away at his temples to get rid of the headache this entire mess was starting to give him. “Goldie, that was fucking stupid when I did it almost six years ago. You are _damn lucky_ B was there to save your ass! If you try to pull another stunt like that, I’ll break both _your_ legs and stick _you_ in a fucking wheelchair until you remember how to use that brain of yours!”

He turned around and headed for the living room without sparing him another glance. Any minute now, once Dick had figured out how he wanted to spin this, he’d have to listen to an endless string of apologies and reassurances and his head already felt like it was about to explode. He had almost reached the first aid box including the burn kit in the cupboard next to the fireplace when his gaze got stuck on the right side of the room.

The tree was huge, as everything in the manor tended to be, grazing the tall ceiling with the star stuck on top of it. At first glance, everything was there – ornaments, lights, tinsel. Upon closer inspection, he could see where branches had been twisted, lights had been entangled and pieces of broken ornaments had gotten stuck between the green. One of the culprits was sitting on top of a briefcase-sized box wrapped in bright blue paper with a silver bow, mewling softly at a particularly shiny orb hanging in the taller branches. Jason frowned at the sight.

“No, Mitaine, you don’t!” He ditched the burn kit on the table and rolled over to the tree quickly, sliding a hand under the kitten’s belly and lifting her up into his lap. “You already massacred the tree at least once. You’re done, got it?” The cat simply stared back him, wailing quietly as if lamenting him spoiling her tree-trashing fun, before leaping over his right arm and off the chair. Her paws nearly missed his bandaged hand and Jason sighed in relief. Thank god it had been the younger one of the two. If it had been the other one, she probably would have stepped on his broken fingers simply out of spite.

“You know, I don’t think she’s ever been that cooperative with anyone,” Barb said with a hint of amusement to her voice as she joined him by the tree. Dick was sharp on her heels and his face lit up brighter than the lights on the fir within a second.

“Presents!” Jason rolled his eyes. Leave it to his over-enthusiastic Christmas-fanatic brother to squee over the sight of gifts while singed from head to toe. Now that he had a chance to actually look at the boxes, he could clearly see the labels. The blue one was for Dick of course. “Whose idea was this and can I open them now?”

“The gifts are my doing,” Alfred admitted. “I figured now that Master Todd was finally conscious and able to join us for meals and gatherings again, Epiphany might be a good opportunity to proceed with the postponed festivities, and while I had initially planned for them to be a surprise following the dinner I prepared for today, I see no harm in changing the schedule.”

That was all the permission Dick needed, and Jason frowned as Dick reached for the box and recklessly tore through the paper as he usually did. Apparently, some things never changed.

“Alright.” Tim crouched down next to the tree and pushed another box, wrapped in mint green and stamped with his own name off to the side before handing a smaller, yellow box into Barbara’s general direction. “This one’s yours, honey. And this one,” Tim said, as he reached under the pile of discarded blue wrapping, “is yours, Jason.”

He stared at the thin, hot-rod red parcel that was held in front of him in sheer confusion. “Mine?”

“Yes, yours,” Tim confirmed. “It’s got your name on it and everything. Now will you take it, please, before my fingers go numb?”

Tim was right. There was his name on it, in silver letters in what he recognized to be Alfred’s handwriting no less. And for a box as thin as this one was, it was heavy. He set it down in his lap with the wrong side up and started peeling off the ribbons and tape that kept the paper in shape slowly. It was painstaking work, much harder than it should have been what with only one hand to work with, but he was _not_ going to ruin it like the savage in black and blue sitting just a few feet too his right, with his legs in an impossible tangle and a stack of new literature – probably more tales and fantasy – in his lap. Jason tried not to think of the last couple of Christmases he himself had had, even as the scar on his cheek lit up like a blow torch. These were gifts from Alfred. Perfectly harmless. Perfectly safe.

“Alfred, I appreciate the effort you put into this...” The words echoed in his skull even as he spoke them. There were so many ways he could word this wrongly and end up upsetting Alfred of all people and not a single way he could think of that was guaranteed not to. “I really do, but—“

His brain ground to a halt as he finally unwrapped the last layer and ditched the paper.

The sketch pad was nine by twelve inches of immaculately white perfection, fixed firmly to a sturdy, wooden back piece. Even without removing the foil, he could see the texture of the paper, fine and grainy enough to allow for meticulous shading. The assortment of Staedtler pencils in various grades that came with it made the nerves in his fingers tingle.

How long had it been since the last time he had sketched anything that wasn’t work-related? How long since he had last sat down and just... drawn?

“Alfie...” He looked up to find Alfred watching him with the same stoic, yet warm expression he usually displayed towards the masters of the manor and for a moment it felt almost the same as it had all those years ago. Almost. So close... “Alfie, I... I can’t accept this.”

“My sincerest apologies if I have chosen the wrong supplies, Master Todd. I shall—“

“No!” It had come out a lot angrier than he had meant and he snapped his mouth shut once more. _Way to fucking blow it. Attempt number two. Get your shit together Todd._ “The supplies are perfect, Alfie. It’s just... you shouldn’t have. I don’t even have anything for you guys.”

“Jason...” Across the pile of discarded wrapping paper, Dick shook his head as he closed the book he had been skimming through. Judging from his body language – the way his muscles were tensed like he was ready to lunge forward, the way his fingers drummed softly against the spine of the book – he was once more repressing the urge to just simply get up and hug everyone he could get his hands on. “Discounting the depressing mess that was last year’s Christmas, we’ve all been getting together like this at the manor for four times since you disappeared. Do you know what was the one thing that at least one of us said each year?”

“Merry Christmas. Don’t get shot?”

Barb and Tim chuckled at that, but Dick’s face remained as serious as it could ever be. “‘ _I wish Jason were here with us.’_ So trust me: you being here with us, alive and in one piece – exactly what we wanted. Best Christmas present ever.”

***

Exactly how he had managed to get through the dinner following the gift unwrapping without Dick trapping everyone in a massive group hug, Jason would never know. Then again, he had learned a long time ago not to look a gift horse in its mouth. He glanced at the discarded burn kit supplies as he finished brushing his teeth and scowled at the traces of blood and ash he could make out. Dick had barely even made a sound throughout it all as Alfred had patched him up and that alone told him more about how tired his brother was than he had ever wanted to know. With a deep sigh, Jason put the tooth brush back into its appointed place and returned to the bed room.

Dick was waiting by the bed, dressed in a set of washed out, grey, BPD stamped boxer shorts and a tank top that instantly made him look about two-hundred percent less intimidating than the suit he usually wore, even despite the muscles. There were fresh cuts and bruises all over him and that alone was a warning sign. Nightwing did not usually get that sloppy. To top it all off, he was _by_ the reading chair, but not _in_ the reading chair. Another warning sign, right there. The smile on his lips was warm enough to mask the physical pain, but nowhere near good enough to hide the sheer exhaustion. Not from a bat anyway.

“What’s the matter, Dickie bird? Not in the mood for a bedtime story?”

“No. Really tired, actually,” Dick thankfully admitted and Jason nodded as he moved into position.

Even now, a week after Barb had shown him all the tricks, transferring out of the chair and into bed unassisted without damaging his battered body any further was nothing short of a challenge. Bring chair right next to the bed? Easy. Lock wheel brakes and flip up arm rest? Peanuts. Actually shifting onto the bed without lighting his left flank up like a block of dynamite and/or damaging his right hand? Very definitely not easy, and he bit down hard on his lips as the hole in his left side protested at the strain.

“Do you—“

“No!” Judging from the way Dick’s outstretched hands flinched, it had come out a lot harsher than he had meant. “Not for nothing, Dick, but I need to do this by myself.”

“Okay.”

The hands remained where they were, but at the very least, he didn’t have to argue. With one last sigh, Jason lifted his legs onto the bed carefully and buried himself under the blanket and comforter he had previously pushed all the way to the right. If it didn’t make him feel like a sitting duck, it would have been almost ridiculous how tiresome the simple process of getting in and out of bed had become over the last weeks. On the bright side, at the very least there finally was an actual advantage to every bed in the manor being queen-size at least – he had as much room to maneuver as he could ever want.

To his left, Dick flipped the half-finished copy of The Neverending Story shut and gave a sigh of his own. “Right. I’ll be going to bed too then. Don’t worry. I’ll still be up in a flash if anything happens.”

Jason narrowed his eyes as he followed Dick’s movement over to the canapé. Only now, as Dick settled onto the cushions, using every trick in his hyper-flexibility arsenal to tuck all of his limbs onto the couch, did it occur to him just what was wrong with this picture.

“How long is that thing anyway? Five feet?”

“Something like that,” Dick answered through a yawn.

“Can’t be comfortable to sleep on for someone who’s six feet tall.”

“Oh, it’s fine. Really.”

Jason frowned. This could only end in disaster. “Dick, I understand if you don’t want to talk, but please don’t lie to me, okay?”

Dick scowled at the ironic echo. “Well, I’m not leaving this room and I’m not sleeping on the floor, so—“

He threw the closes thing he could reach – one of the shams – and couldn’t suppress a smile at the little, indignant howl he got in return.

“Jason, what the hell?”

“Get over here, Dickie.”

“Excuse me?” From the other side of the room, Dick looked at him in utter confusion, flicking his gaze between Jason and the vastly empty right side of the bed. “You hate it when people invade your personal space.”

“Which is why you’re keeping your own blanket and your own pillow,” Jason insisted. “Now get over here, before I change my mind.”

For a moment, the room was silent as a grave, even though Jason knew that the first birds had already started to chirp outside. He could see the first, tiny tint of blue in the black sky through the small gap in between the curtains. Then, there was the muffled shuffling of bare feet on soft carpet. He glanced up to see Dick hovering just by the right side of the bed, red pillow and blanket firmly clutched against his chest.

“You sure about this?”

“No.” It was an honest answer. Part of him wanted nothing more than to tell him to get the fuck away from this bed, preferably even out of the room. _He’s your brother_ , not Robin-chided, and Jason scowled as he drew his own blanket closer and threw back the comforter to make room on the right side of the bed. “But if you’re waiting for that, you’ll be stuck on the canapé for another six years. Now lie down and go to sleep already. You look like you’re about to pass out where you stand.”

“Feel like it, too...” Dick admitted with a slight chuckle. Still, Jason could feel the bed dent slightly on his right and the comforter lift quickly before it was tucked into place again. “Thanks, Jason.” Dick’s voice was somewhere between relief and elation. “I really mean it.”

“Whatever. Just so we’re clear: if you go human octopus on me or kick me in your sleep, you’re back on the fucking couch.”

To his right, Dick grinned as he closed his eyes and burrowed deeper into his pillow and blanket. “Deal.”


	19. Strolling Through A Minefield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, you have to be a little cruel to be kind. Barbara knows that better than most people. But each person's minefield of psyche is different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy cow! More than 100 comment threads. More than 200 kudos. Almost 5000 views. You are all amazing people.
> 
> Big thanks to everyone who read and reviewed so far :)

Screw Bruce and the money and fame he had left them. Screw the reporters that were drawn to it like vultures circling a freshly deceased carcass. Screw the repair guys who had been trying to circumvent the ‘no pictures’ policy in the manor by attempting to snap quick selfies as they worked on repairing the damage caused by Joker’s goons. And last but not least, screw whatever death-worshipping pile of evil garbage had decided to adopt the clown’s name for himself while wreaking havoc on Gotham.

The banks had been the first to get hit, which made sense. The City of Fear Halloween had left everyone, from cleaning ladies to the city council, from lowly street thug to Harvey Dent, completely broke. Banks were quick cash, once more proving Barb’s point that Gotham’s financial institutions were in serious need of a technological upgrade. They were in the 21st century for crying out loud! There should no longer be a need for checks and storage of tens of thousands of dollars in cash. And yet, any bank robber was better than a gang war.

Penguin had thought himself smart. Instead of setting up shop back in Gotham – which was now widely known to have three vigilantes patrolling it, one of which used guns and another that used Crane’s concoctions – instead of Gotham, he had chosen Blüdhaven. Only one vigilante, one he wanted personal payback on to boot, and despite Nightwing’s best efforts, there had simply not been enough time past the ACE debacle to dismantle the entire network build up by the Swans. Penguin had grabbed what was left, greasing a few palms along the way to have a convenient little riot in the prison Tracey Buxton had been locked up in. Quid pro quo, really. Only once he had established a new nest in Blüdhaven had Cobblepot reached back into Gotham. The Penguin had taken the Joker copy-cat about as well as one would expect and the results were nothing short of brutally bloody. It had only been a matter of time.

 _Focus._ Barbara shook her head as she entered the room as quietly as she could. There was no point in worrying about any of this in front of Tim, Dick or Jason. Dick would only blame himself for not spending nearly enough time on patrol – a joke, given that he usually milked every hour of nighttime for all it was worth – and Jason... well, she wasn’t entirely sure what Jason’s reaction to the fact that they could really, really have needed another pair of hands on deck right now would be. All she knew was that it would not be constructive to his recovery and so she and Alfred had quickly agreed not to press the topic. Chances were good that he would dig into their databases and casefiles soon enough, if he hadn’t already done so. She frowned at the thought. For someone who hated Bruce’s paranoia and thick-headed determination, the apple sure had not fallen far from the tree.

Another thought she would not share with Jason any time soon.

There were too many of those already, if she was being honest. Curiosity, an inquisitive, mystery-unraveling mind had been one of the prime bat skills anyone who had wanted to go on patrol with Batman had to possess. She longed for the days when that would have been a good thing. Now, she might as well have tried clearing a mine field without detection equipment, and the only one who knew where the damn IED’s were buried was Jason.

It was Alfred who had provided her with the metaphor that so accurately described the strange gut feeling she hadn’t been able to put a name on in all those months they had been in more or less sporadic contact with Jason now. If Jason’s psyche was a mine field, then Jason was the last surviving local, the only person who knew the terrain well enough, the only person who had _been_ there, who knew where the explosives were, but who had neither the tools nor the skill to disarm them. Rushing in all on their own, like Bruce had so valiantly done in his blind, misguided haste to fix things, was not going to end well for anyone involved. “No, if you want to clear a field like that,” Alfred had informed her, “you have to get that local to trust you, to move forward on his own and point out those hidden pockets of death one by agonizing one, then keep a sharp eye on him and do your best to keep him from panicking while your team defuses the explosives carefully. And in time, the local will come to trust you not to blow everyone to bits and pieces. In time, you _will_ clear the field.”

_In time..._

Well, as long as he wasn’t deliberately trying to maim or murder any of the manor’s residents, Barbara was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt and let him have all the time he needed.

The door clicked shut behind her almost inaudibly and yet two pairs of eyes were on her immediately.

The first one was cold and piercing blue, yet not as harsh as usual, thanks to the clouds of sleep hanging in front of Jason’s eyes. Still, there was no denying the sheer focus of his stare. Jason might not have been awake enough to know his location or the day of the week, but he knew she was there and he was evaluating just how much of a threat she would be and how quickly and violently he would have to react. “Just little old me,” Barb whispered across the distance. “Why don’t you try to go back to sleep, Jason?”

He had always responded better to being asked than being ordered, but still, Barbara couldn’t help raising an eyebrow at the quick nod she got in reply, followed by Jason’s eyes closing and his breathing evening out once more. She checked the vitals of the biometrics trackers concealed in his casts on her phone and clocked his return to the realms of sleep at little less than four minutes. As far as she knew, that was a new record, even including the Jason she knew before he had been kidnapped by Joker.

“Damn. Must have been a rough night.” She hadn’t really meant it as a question, but Tim took her up on it anyway, smiling at her from the chair next to Jason’s bed. There was fatigue in the sea-green of his eyes as well, but it slowly gave way to a comfortable level of alertness as she rolled closer.

“Honey... you have no idea...”

“How many?”

“Five.”

Barbara nodded solemnly. That was about all the information she needed. Five nightmares in six hours. No wonder Jason was completely beat. She had already started heading for the desk by the window to set aside the breakfast Alfred had just prepared, at least until a time when Jason would actually be in any condition to have it, when she noticed what was strange about the scene in front of her. The realization had her stop dead in her tracks, nearly jamming her fingers in between the wheels and the metal frame of her chair.

First of all, Jason was lying on his back, straight as a candle, which had never been natural for any of them, and certainly not for Jason. The Jason she remembered had usually been curling in on himself, back to the wall, facing as many entry points to the room as he could make out, one hand positioned perfectly for a quick counter-attack at best and armed with a knife at worst. At first, this deviation from the norm had been an enforced, necessary evil, as they had strapped him down to prevent more damage when he thrashed in his sleep, and the restraints had stayed until he had first woken up. Apparently, Jason was starting to get used to the position, although the sight still left her wondering whether it was just his injuries hindering his movements and sticking him in a position that was so far from what she would have called ‘normal Jason’, or whether it was something he had picked up during his time with the militia. Or, even worse, during his time in captivity, which brought up a whole new set of nightmarish scenarios, and she pushed the thought back into the depths it had come from.

Secondly, he was not alone.

“I’ve got to be imagining this.”

“You’re not,” Tim assured her. “Although I agree that it definitely feels like we’ve entered some bizarre, parallel universe.”

There was a second person in the bed and it was undeniably Dick Grayson. Barb would have recognized that patch of black hair anywhere, peeking out from underneath the second blanket – red, so undoubtedly Dick’s nightly token from Jason’s unused room. As if to make up for Jason’s own rigid position, Dick had curled up into a tangle that looked painful even despite the thick covers, but she knew it was not. It was merely the oddity that was Dick Grayson, aerialist and very certainly almost contortionist, in his natural habitat. The only other thing aside from his head that was not covered by the blanket was his right hand, and Barbara grinned at the sight of it resting against Jason’s right forearm.

“Maybe I’m the one who’s asleep, actually,” Barbara mused as she set the tray in her lap down on the desk. “Since when does Jason let anyone but Alfred get this close to him?”

“I have no idea,” Tim admitted with a wide yawn, even as the remaining sleepiness faded from his face. It was almost six after all. Almost time to suit up for patrol and trade his watchful post with Barbara. “But I’m glad he did. I don’t know what exactly he was dreaming about, but it was bad. Really, really bad.”

“Fear gas level bad?”

“Almost.”

That was alarming to say the least and for the first time since they had set up the schedule, Barbara was glad she would have to draw a fresh sample of blood from Jason once he was awake. They had hoped that the chemical poisoning was over and done, what with his body having detoxed itself piece by agonizing piece over the last three weeks, but maybe fluctuating temperature perception was not the only lingering side effect after all. They would have to be two-hundred percent sure before moving on with his recovery plan.

“I know it sounds strange,” Tim continued, “but I think having Dick right there actually helped. He pretty much woke up immediately every single time, reached out and started murmuring assurances until Jason calmed down again. Never thought that would actually work with him.”

“I’m just surprised Dick didn’t outright hug him.”

That got her a mischievous grin in return. “Come on, Barb, give Dick some credit. He may be occasionally clueless and he may not have been very mindful of his own health over the last couple of weeks, but he is not suicidal.”

She wanted to laugh. She really did, but somehow the sound got stuck in her throat, and by the time it managed to get out, it had become nothing but a meager sigh. Sometimes, she could not help but wonder how they had each managed to retain enough sanity to lead halfway functional lives despite everything that had happened, and – more importantly – how long this fragile peace would last. “Jason’s going to punch him out of this bed the moment he is lucid enough to understand just what is going on around him...”

“Well...” Tim stretched with another yawn, before putting aside his copy of Neuroscience Monthly. “If and when he does, you know what to do.”

Barbara grinned. “Do you want me to print and frame them, too, or is my phone’s picture gallery good enough?”

***

In the end, there was no punching.

Dick was the first to wake up, a little more than two-and-a-half hours into her shift. She watched him freeze halfway through his usual morning combination of yawning and stretching, his feet just a few inches away from Jason’s cast-wrapped ankles. If the look on his face was anything to go by, he was just as bewildered by his current situation as Barb herself had been.

“No, you’re not imagining it,” Barbara decided to answer his question before he could ask, “but I honestly have no idea whether he’ll thank you for still being there when he wakes up or whether he’ll deck you in the face for it.”

She watched Dick stifle a little bout of laughter as he slowly slid from the bed, quiet and graceful as a cat. The smile was wide on his face though and Barbara wanted to sigh with relief. If Jason had inherited Bruce’s determination, toughness and sheer stubbornness, Dick had inherited his compulsion to stick his nose into everyone’s business and right any wrong that came his way, no matter how big or small. However, he had not inherited Bruce’s thick skin, his ability to separate his own personal feelings from the reality at hand. Dick wore his heart on his sleeve and more often than not, his compulsion to get involved, to help, left him raw and bleeding when things went to hell. It was unhealthy and unfortunate, although the latter adjective was debatable. One emotional ice block in the family was more than enough. At the very least, Dick knew how to open his goddamn mouth and _ask_ for help if he needed it.

“I’ll grab a shower, then head out for patrol,” Dick stated as he untangled himself from his blanket and draped it over his little brother, before disappearing into the bathroom. Another blanket. Another layer of protection, of warmth, because if there was one eternal truth to Jason, it was that there was no such thing as ‘too warm’ for him. ‘A true child of the dog days’, Alfred had called him once, if Barbara was not mistaken.

Maybe that was one of the reasons why he had ended up recruiting and training the militia in South America. Another question she had not gotten to ask yet, and most likely would not any time soon. The Arkham Knight, and everything that pertained to him, was another mine field, just like Joker, only perhaps even worse. Joker was – had been – a murderous, raving lunatic with zero regard for human life. Him being capable of the kind of violence and torture that Jason had undoubtedly suffered was pretty much expected. But the Arkham Knight? Barbara shuddered to remember him. Her brief conversation with the Knight, with Jason, face to face in Scarecrow’s hideout, had given her nightmares for weeks and she was forever grateful that she was the polar opposite to Jason in regards to nightmares – no thrashing, no screaming. Nobody ever had to know until she was ready to talk about it. She _had_ eventually talked about Killingers to Tim, Dick and Alfred (in that precise order), and it had helped take the edges off the memory, but the underlying problem remained: even though it had felt very much as if she had been talking to two completely separate people, there was no denying that the Arkham Knight had come _from_ Jason, and that thought was another hell of its own.

Just how shallow or deep beneath the surface had this monster been hiding? Just how much would it take to trigger it again? Were all of them capable of this? She knew Dick had beaten Joker within an inch of his life the one time he had gotten his hands on him after Jason’s death, and he probably wouldn’t have stopped there, if it hadn’t been for Bruce. She knew every one of her own dreams in which Joker died a painful, agonizing death almost always left her feeling warm and fuzzy once she woke up. She knew even Alfred had sounded almost _elated_ at the news of the clown’s demise in Arkham City.

Just how much would it take for any of them to snap? Was that why Bruce had his ‘no killing’ rule? Not because ‘all life is sacred, you may not be judge, jury and executioner, we have to be better than them, etc. etc.’, but because he wanted to make sure that none of them would ever even get close to that abyss, that fine line that separated men from monsters?

There was no way Jason had not asked himself all those questions at least a dozen times. Barbara was sure of it. He had been there after all. Was that part of the reason why he had distanced himself from them for so long? Because he had still been trying to figure out how to walk that line? And just how many times would they have to explain to him that they were aware of his efforts and convinced that he would prevail, until he would finally take it as truth?

“Damn it, Jason,” with a long sigh, Barbara reached for her copy of the American Forensic Journal once more. “You could give Riddler a run for his money, do you know that?”

“Don’t tell Eddie.” Dick emerged from the door to the bathroom, dressed and ready to head out once more. The suit was still singed and roughed up in places, but then again, Barbara knew he had at least three fully stacked safe-houses in Gotham, so that would not last long. “He’s only concerned with Catwoman and Ghost so far, and I would like to keep it that way. Let Bruce deal with him. Jason has enough on his plate as it is.”

 _That_ they could definitely agree on. She nodded quietly as Dick took a deep breath, then stepped forward, sat down by Jason’s left side and squeezed his shoulder gently. It was almost frightening to behold how quickly Jason went from trapped in deep, quiet sleep, to that laser-focus state of initial alert. His gaze went across the entire room once, no doubt scanning for any and all guests, whether invited or not, before settling on Dick’s cowl.

“Already pretty dark out there, Goldie. How come you’re not in Blüd yet?”

“Quality brotherly bonding time,” Dick replied with a flash of a smile. “Besides, this may be the manor and I may be wearing black, but _I_ don’t consider it treason to start patrol a little late every once in a while. Also, I wanted to be here when you woke up. Just simply... up and leaving you would have been the height of bad manners.”

“So is plowing through gift wrappings like Barb’s cats on caffeine,” Jason lobbed back at him, but there was almost no bite behind the bark. “Get lost, Goldie. You have sixty-four open cases and eleven unprocessed crime scenes in your database. Blüdhaven needs you.”

Dick cringed, but the smile remained. A couple of see-yous and take-cares later, Nightwing was gone and Jason was eyeing his wheelchair as if he could not quite decide whether he wanted to use or burn the contraption.

That was a feeling Barb could definitely relate to. It was also not a good point to be dwelling on. “If it is any consolation, you will only have to deal with it for another nine days. Then you can switch to manual. After that, two more weeks, then crutches. That’s not too bad.”

“No, it’s not,” Jason admitted, yet she could hear the ‘but’ swinging underneath the words just as much as she could figuratively see him swallow whatever rebuke he had wanted to give her. Instead, his voice held the same resigned tone she had last heard after he had revealed the extent of the damage to his shoulder to her. “Gimme fifteen minutes and I’ll join you and Alfred on tech duty.”

“No.” She could see where this was going and she did not like it one bit. To most people the little warning signs may have been lost, but she knew what to look for, not least because she had been there herself in the early stages of her recovery. She recognized the slightly off-key inflection in that sentence that basically said ‘I know I’m a burden, sorry you’re stuck with me’. It was one of, if not the most common misconception people tended to have: depression was not about feelings of guilt and apathy about the world. It was about feelings of guilt and apathy towards one’s self. And she would be damned if he she was going to give him the chance to let it take hold.

“I’ll give you fifteen minutes, then we’ll have breakfast together, then I’ll need to take a blood sample from you, and _then_ we can go and hassle Tim and Dick.”

“Blood sample?”

“Fifteen minutes, Jason. Clock’s ticking.”

***

As expected, it took him all of twelve and Barbara frowned at the underlying notion of it all. Apparently, you could take the kid out of the costume, but you could not take the Robin out of the man. If Batman said he wanted an update in five minutes, it meant he expected it in three. And, oh, how each of his boys had fallen over themselves to make it happen! Barbara would never understand it, nor would she forgive. It was now abundantly clear that Bruce had never looked at any of them as fighting _with_ him, but _for_ him instead. It was not a healthy way to treat a partner and it was definitely not a healthy way to raise kids. “You know, it’s not a competition,” she explained patiently as she handed Jason his tray of food from the desk. “When I say fifteen, I mean fifteen.”

“I know.” Jason grinned at her over his plate and the J brand on his face warped the innocent expression into something downright feral. “You and Alfred have always been weird like that.”

She was not surprised when he did not wait for her answer before escaping from the room. Jason had spent the better part of three weeks in here, most of which had been a long, agonizing recovery from his injuries. What did surprise her was that they ended up having dinner in the actual dining room. The Jason she remembered had always hated that room. Too stiff. Too formal. According to Alfred, it had not been at all uncommon to find him on the living room couch or in the upstairs drawing room instead, much to Bruce’s dismay, which was probably part of the point, to be truthful.

“You said you were gonna take a blood sample when we’re done,” Jason muttered in between mouthfuls of omelet. He still hesitated before each bite, Barbara noticed, but at the very least he was no longer spending every second looking at the food like he could not quite decide whether it was cyanide or arsenic. A small victory was still a victory. One mine down. However-many left to go. “Why now? Did I miss something? Did one of those New Year’s clown fuckers poison me or something?”

“Not that we know of,” Barbara admitted. “But we are on a bit of a schedule here. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you earlier.”

“Schedule?” That had finally done it. She could practically hear the little alarm bells going off in his head as he devoured the last few bites of his omelet and tightened his grip around the knife. “You mean the casts and the wheel chair and all that, right?”

“No.” Barbara took a deep breath. This was going to be painful. “I mean that hole in your flank.” As predicted, that made him flinch ever so slightly, before he covered up the reaction by refilling his glass. “You have a three-by-four-inch hole in your side that only missed your intestines because of all the muscle on you and we both know what that means. If all we’re going to do about it is to keep on packing the thing with sterilized gauze until it scars over, you’ll keep that dent in you for the rest of your life. Not to mention that it’s too much damage for your muscle to regenerate all by themselves, so you can kiss your abdominal strength goodbye. You know what that means in this line of work.”

“It means I’ll never be able to be on the front lines again. No more heavy lifting. No more high-speed grappling. No more acrobatics. No more fisticuffs...” There was no malice in the words, no anger in his voice, and that, Barbara realized, was even worse than the furious argument she had been expecting. It was just _wrong_ for Jason – Jason, of all people – to look so utterly crushed. The dark laugh that followed as he downed his glass did not make it better. “Guess I should be happy I still got my eyes at least, huh? Might never be able to go toe to toe with any of these bastards ever again, but who needs abdominal muscles for sniping?”

“What if I told you you’ll do better than that? What if I told you you’ll run and jump and grapple and fight like before, if we do this right?”

“I’d call you delusional,” Jason sneered at her as he moved away from the table and over to the cabinet where she kept her red wine. Barbara frowned. How he had even known that that was there was anybody’s guess. He grimaced at the label on the bottle. “Thirteen percent? Jesus fucking Christ, Barb, you need to get some better stuff.”

“I am _not_ stocking up on bottles of Park Row shine just so you can try to kill your liver,” Barbara protested as she snatched the bottle from him and put it back in place. “Poor thing has been working hard enough as it is. Which brings me back to your original question. We’ve been drawing blood from you every fifth day since you got here to see just how much of all that toxic crap that got into you at ACE is still left. Once the answer is ‘none’, we will actually be able to do something about that wound.”

“Right...” He clearly wasn’t convinced, but if she wasn’t completely mistaken, there had been the tiniest spark of hope in his eyes. She knew that feeling, too. “That something being...?”

“I’ll show you.”

***

The control room was buzzing and humming quietly when they arrived, its screens lit up in soft blue as they displayed maps of Gotham and Blüdhaven, open casefiles, trackers and biometrics readings. It was the first time since New Year’s that Jason had come down here, and Barb was not surprised to find Jason soaking up every single detail he could make out.

Everyone but Nightwing was within normal, acceptable bio-readings ranges, and one fast glance at his current casefile told her that it was nothing to worry about. He was chasing down pockets of a drug gang that had been trying to set foot in Blüdhaven, shipping mostly Venom into a city that already had more than enough tough thugs wrestling for control. Dick’s vitals numbers were high enough to indicate that he was in a fight, but low enough to confirm that he was not in any trouble.

Robin was on the comms line with Alfred, which explained why all she and Jason received as they entered the room was a quick, but polite nod over a cup of green tea. She had one ear on the conversation as she headed for the infirmary and retrieved a needle, vial, sanitizer, bandages and a sealed pair of gloves from the meticulously stocked cupboards. Judging from what she could hear, it was a comparatively quiet night, with far more petty crimes rather than a big crisis. Of course, that did not mean that the boys would not come back completely beat by dawn, but at the very least, petty crime was largely predictable. After all each of them had had more than enough practice.

“So...” Jason growled at the sight of the supplies in her lap. He hated needles, always had, and given what she knew about his mother, Barbara wasn’t surprised. “You still owe me an explanation.”

“Right.” Alfred was by her side, his swivel chair parked right next to her wheel chair before she even had time to ask, and Barbara was grateful for that. Alfred was much, much better at drawing blood than anybody else on the family. She handed the supplies over to him with a quick nod, took over his post by the computer and instantly muted all audio comms links. The last thing she needed was for Bruce to burst in on this conversation. “It’s a project of the Medical R&D department of Wayne Enterprises’ Applied Sciences division. It’s code-named CREEM—“ The text message icon popped up on screen in a quick flash of white and Barbara frowned at the sight. She might have known.

“... which stands for Crystallized Regenerative Enhanced Extracellular Matrix,” Alfred finished for her, and even without looking, Barbara could tell from the sound of a nozzle spraying that he had already put on the gloves and rolled up Jason’s sleeve, and was ready to take the sample. “The project is still in its lab-testing phase, with no clinical trials approved of or scheduled yet, but testing has been on-going for more than half a year now and the results look very promising.”

“What results?”

The annoyance was easy to hear in Jason’s voice and if she had turned around, Barbara was sure she would have found him scowling at his own elbow, just waiting for the damn vial to fill up so he could finally get the Spanish-curse-word-of-choice needle out of his arm. As it was, she was too busy staring at the message on her screen to bother.

_Is that Jason? Is he alright?_

A text, not a call. Two questions, not an order. She gave a quick glance at the almost finished cup of green tea before re-reading the message another six times.

“Full physical and functional re-growth of muscle, ligament and bone tissue removed by traumatic injury,” Alfred finally answered and even if she could not see it in his face, Barbara could hear the spark of hope grow in Jason’s voice, albeit peppered with a downright paranoid dose of disbelief.

“So... they chopped the tails off some lab rats and managed to grow them back to full size and mobility? And they actually think that’s gonna work on humans. You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Rest assured, Master Todd. I would never make light of the physical and emotional integrity of anyone in my care, but if you wish to discuss the matter in detail, we will gladly invite the leading researcher on the project to the manor for a more thorough explanation.”

Despite the warmth radiating from every syllable, there was a certain, steely edge to Alfred’s voice that sent a shiver down Barbara’s spine. Her eyes focused on the message again. Jason was injured. Bruce hadn’t seen him, hadn’t even heard anything from him and about him in five days, had been locked out of their databases and kept away from their safe-houses and hideouts... and yet this was all Bruce had written? This... this was downright _cooperative_ by Batman’s standards.

Just what the hell had Alfred _done_ to him?

_Yes. That was Jason. He is_

Her fingers froze above the keyboard. Just what was Jason? Alright? Very definitely not. He was no longer suicidal, although his mind had clearly been far from at ease since the moment he had woken up. None of his injuries had gotten any worse, but they had not gotten much better either. He had eaten his breakfast, which was a good sign as far as dedication to a speedy recovery went, but he had also reached for the alcohol right afterwards.

 _That one’s on you_ , Barbara chided herself as her mind retrieved the memories. _He had been mostly ok until you brought up the injury in his left side and the implications of it_.

_Yes. That was Jason. He is mostly ok. As far as anyone in his position can be._

She hit ‘Send’ before her brain would have time to rethink the wording and turned around once more. Alfred was busy bandaging Jason’s arm, who looked at the vial with the fresh, crimson liquid in it as if he wanted to smash it against the nearest wall. And who was she trying to fool? He probably did.

“You look like a deer in the headlights, Barb.” His eyes narrowed immediately, his focus shifting from wary and pissed off to concerned and analytical in a second. “Is everything ok?”

Was it? She felt like she had been transported to some weird, parallel universe where Dick was the one who kept radio silence, Bruce was the one who displayed tact and concern, and she was at a loss for words.

“Actually... Bruce just asked me the same thing about you.”

Jason rolled his eyes at that. “Of course he did. Fucking bastard probably thinks I tried to put a bullet through someone’s head or blow up the manor since he left.” He waited until Alfred had ditched the used supplies and collected the blood sample for analysis. This time, she did not miss it. She could see the spark of rage lighting up inside him, making his fingers curl into fists and his eyes grow cold as ice even as he handed over the little bottle of glass and thanked Alfred for helping him roll down the sleeve of his shirt once more. Just a second later, his fist landed in the shelf to his left, sending a box full of snap flashes crashing to the ground. The little grey devices scattered across the floor with a metallic clank. “Tell him I’m just peachy and he can go fuck himself.” He was already halfway to the elevator when he called out once more. “And tell him I don’t need his sermons and the only way I’m letting him lock me up in Blackgate or whatever other fucking place he has in mind will be over my cold, dead body.”

“Jason—” It was already too late. Barbara cursed quietly as the doors to the lift closed with a loud ping. On the screen, another message icon flashed in bright white and she sighed as she clicked ‘View’. If this really was Bruce going on once more about Jason breaking the one rule or anything along those lines, she was going to cut his communication link for good. Against the blue of the screen, the letters looked unbelievably soft.

_Thank you, Oracle._

***

She found him upstairs, in the drawing room, sitting by the table with his laptop unfolded, but his mind was obviously miles away. From outside, harsh winter moonlight was falling into the dampened room, shimmering on the short, silver coat of the younger one of her two cats, and for a moment, Barbara was sure she was imagining this. “Alright, how are you doing this? She never ever lies still. Least of all in someone’s lap.”

As if to salt the wound, Jason’s uninjured hand ran across the fur softly. Her whirlwind of a cat only purred. “Guess she’s got good taste. The other one hates me, though.”

“Alizée hates everyone,” Barbara corrected him. “She’s an elderly diva. Unless you treat her like she’s god’s greatest gift to this earth, she hates you.” She edged forward slowly. _Mine fields and PTSD. Mine fields and goddamn PTSD..._ On the screen of his laptop, Nightwing’s casefiles were open once more.

“You know...” Jason swallowed hard. It was almost impossible reading the emotions off his face in the dim light, not in the least because of the scars changing the once familiar lines ever so slightly, but if she had to have taken a guess, Barb would have called that melancholy swinging in his voice. “It’s been great.” He followed the words up with a short chuckle, as if he couldn’t quite believe them himself, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. “I mean, aside from the broken legs and the broken hand and the hole in my side and the chemical poisoning and Joker’s goons and nearly getting electrocuted and Bruce infiltrating this damn place like it’s an enemy FOB or something... I know it sounds crazy, but aside from all that, it’s been great. Seeing Alfie again, you guys going ‘you shall not pass’ on B and all that jazz... I know it’s fucking late and it probably doesn’t mean much, but I’m grateful for everything you guys have done for me.”

For a few seconds, all Barbara could do was blink. Maybe she was still in that weird parallel universe. Or maybe this was all a dream. “Jason... thanks, but... are you sure you’re... ok?”

“I’m pretty fucking sure I’m anything _but_ ok.” And just like that, the distant, nostalgic shadow that had been covering every inch of him was gone. She watched Jason sit up straight once more, diving straight back into Dick’s casefiles and what looked suspiciously like the unprocessed crime scene of a double homicide. “Don’t worry, though. I’m not gonna check out while I’m here. The last people I want to have cleaning up that kind of mess are you guys.”

“That’s very considerate of you,” Barbara replied with as much restraint to her voice as she could. Here they were again. Another mine. “If you’re still in the ‘I’m grateful but I don’t even have any presents for you’ mood, might I suggest you don’t try checking out even _after_ you’re well enough to leave?”

That earned her another chuckle. With a few quick taps, Jason enlarged part of the crime scene photos. To anyone else, it would have looked like very deliberate, very rude avoidance, but Barbara knew better. This was the Jason she knew. The Jason who never talked about any of his trauma deliberately, directly to someone’s face. There always had to be an exit strategy, a diversion that could be used for cover if necessary. “Trust me, Barb, I’ve tried often enough. I can’t do it. I don’t know why, but I’m not sure I want to know. I just can’t.”

“And I am very happy about that.” She craned her neck to get a better look at the picture on the screen. “Is that a point of impact on the top left of that street sign?”

“Looks like it.” He sent the picture through a series of filters before bringing up the data on the collected shell casings. “Doesn’t match. Those are M9 shells. That hole’s from something bigger. Most likely an assault rifle.” He added a quick note to the casefile before zooming out again and moving on to another square on the video grid. Barbara couldn’t suppress the little pang of guilt inside her stomach at the sight. It was easy to forget sometimes that Jason could be like this, too. Slow and methodical. She knew it was a mindset he had acquired comparatively late in life, mostly because ‘slow’ usually equaled ‘dead’ on the streets of Gotham.

“You know, he couldn’t lock you up, even if he wanted to.” She wasn’t sure what had possessed her to voice that thought out loud, but the way Jason’s fingers froze above the keyboard and every muscle in his face went hard as rock told her that she had seconds at best to decide whether this was going to be a disaster or not. “He couldn’t do it back when you were still thirteen. I’m pretty sure he couldn’t do it now.”

“Yeah, well back then I didn’t have murder, domestic terrorism and the rest of GCPD’s laundry list of charges against the Arkham Knight under my belt,” Jason lobbed back at her and Barbara gave him her best pout in return.

“So? Just because they only managed to detain you long enough to actually charge you with anything thrice as a kid doesn’t mean you didn’t give them enough trouble to want to strangle you. I saw your file.”

“Everyone and their mother’s seen my file, Barb. The fucking Joker saw my file, for fuck’s sake.”

“No, he didn’t.” It was almost ridiculous how much that felt like a personal insult, but if there was one thing she was going to take pride in, it was her thoroughness. “He couldn’t have.”

“Barb, how else do you think he knew my fucking name? I sure as hell didn’t tell him, but he had access to my fingerprints, my DNA...”

“All of which I wiped from GCPD’s databases just before you became Robin,” Barbara insisted. “I deleted it all. Your file, every reference in your mom’s file, in your dad’s file. Every piece of evidence that even so much as mentioned you. I went through a six hours long database crawl later that day to search every single database known to Bruce and me and wipe any trace of you from the network. I even deleted that ridiculously pathetic excuse of a dossier Child Protective Services had on you, so whatever Joker told you, he was straight-up lying to you.”

She had fully expected him to argue with her, possibly even yell at her, but instead, Jason remained silent as a grave. She was just about ready to go on when he finally spoke up. “Barb, are you insane? Your father’s a cop. You despise people who temper with evidence. Why the hell would you?”

“Because you are my little brother, Jason. And because Bruce _asked_ me, too.” The confusion and distrust were evident in his expression and Barbara couldn’t blame him. Bruce hardly ever asked. Back then, she had been half-sure Bruce was out of his mind as well. “And if you still don’t believe me, I want you to consider this: We _know_ that you were the Arkham Knight. I know it. Tim knows it. Dick knows it. Alfred knows it. _Bruce_ knows it. If we wanted to have you behind bars, you’d be there already.”

Far off in the distance, the Crest Hill Church clock struck ten. Barbara counted each gong as she waited for Jason to make his move. She could practically see the gears turning in his head. She could also see a hundred thousand ways this could end absolutely horribly.

_Please don’t step on the mine. Please don’t step on the mine. Please—_

“I need a drink.”

“Yeah, me too.” Barbara sighed in relief, even as Jason locked the laptop, pushed the kitty off his legs and headed for the door. “I think we still have a bottle of Captain Morgan Black in the kitchen.”

Jason raised an eyebrow at her. “I’m impressed, Babs. Next you’re gonna tell me you got Cuban cigars hidden somewhere in this place.”

“Marlboro cigarettes, one pack only,” Barb corrected with a tiny, pleading smile. “Just don’t tell, Dick. He’ll never let us hear the end of it.”


	20. Giving Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No person exists in a vaccuum. Everyone needs a helping hand sooner or later, but trust is a hard thing to earn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, bit of a strange chapter here. Soooooooo much research done for this chapter... biomedical engineering, regenerative medicine, casts, Latin American cursing... I swear my google search history is the weirdest thing ever.
> 
> One last word of advice: If you don't know who Alberto Vargas is, his paintings are beautiful, but NOT safe for work. Google at your own risk.

Wayne International Plaza loomed above them ominously, hauntingly, like the spire of some dark lord’s castle in a cheap fantasy novel, and Jason felt the slight spike of suspicious caution pierce in his gut, as they drove down to the parking area, passing beneath the watchful eyes of the silver statue guarding the front entrance. The silver statue that, with a little bit of imagination, looked almost like a stylized version of Batgirl, standing tall and graceful, her arms stretched up towards the sky, spreading the cape behind her as if she were about to take flight any second.

If it weren’t for the fact that he had the real Batgirl, the real Barbara Gordon, sitting right next to him, he would already have asked Alfred to turn the car around ten miles back. The quick ‘thanks’ he had muttered to her when she had agreed to come along was nowhere near enough to express the sheer relief he felt at having her here.

There had been some debate of course about the best time and way to pull this off. They couldn’t have the procedure done at the manor, not if he wanted to have his questions answered by the person responsible for this new experimental treatment, and that much he had insisted on. Inviting an outsider into the infirmary in the secret basement of the manor was not an option. Wayne Enterprises’ Medical R&D division had labs that were sufficiently equipped and sterile enough for surgery and nobody was going to ask any questions if the owners of the company, Lucius Fox and Timothy Drake, were to go there after hours, when everything was dead and quiet, for some overtime work. Barb could hack the security system and fool any cameras between them and the labs. If that left Ghost on his own without any tech support for the duration of the procedure, he would just have to deal with it. The communicator hidden in Alfred’s pocket watch was still on and Barbara had brought her laptop. Worst case scenario, they could still remote into the Batcomputer and dig up whatever information he needed. As for Doctor Thompkins, she had been a friend of the family as long as Jason could remember and was sure to keep their secrets. That only left one loose end.

“Are you sure we can trust this biomed engineer,” Jason asked Lucius as he maneuvered carefully from the backseat of the car to his wheelchair. He was faintly aware of the fact that Dick was right behind him, curling his fingers into a fist in the desperate attempt not to jump forward and help his little brother. They had had the argument before. “I mean, if he tells anyone about this, best case scenario we’ll have another PR nightmare on our hands. Worst case scenario, we’re taking everyone just a step closer to getting unmasked. I don’t think his NDA covers this.”

“I have utmost confidence in Ms. García,” Lucius replied with a quick nod. “She is aware that her project is not yet approved for human testing and that – technically – allowing and aiding its use in this situation is a breech of multiple codes of conducts. She has as much to lose as all of us.”

She. Not he. This idea was getting worse by the second. “And you don’t wonder why she’s still agreeing to it?”

“Who cares?” Tim rolled his eyes at the question. “What matters is that you are going to be ok. We have the technology—“

“We can rebuild him!”

Barb chuckled. Tim grinned. Jason just wanted to plant his fist in Dick’s face. “I’m being serious, guys. I don’t want this to come back to bite anyone in the ass.”

“It won’t,” Barb assured him, the chuckle gone as quickly as it had come. “We’ll take care of it, Jason. Just... have a little faith in us, ok?”

Jason swallowed hard as he looked at the doors to the elevator. They had already all taken breaks from their busy schedules to come here. Tucking in the tail and turning back now would be wasteful, stupid and the height of bad manners. He thought back to the last couple of weeks, to how they had stayed away from him when he had asked, how they had kept Bruce away from him as much as they could, how they had come for him at ACE when he had been sure he was going to die alone and forgotten as Croc’s latest dinner.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

Barb sighed in relief, started typing on her laptop, and ten seconds later the status indicator light on the surveillance camera above the door glitched out for just a second. “I’ve set all cameras along our path to loop footage of the last twenty minutes. Let’s go.”

Tim went first, swiping his card to let himself, Dr. Thompkins and Barbara into the elevator. Jason watched on, strumming his left-hand fingers against the side of his armrest as the lift ascended. It stopped at the twelfth floor, then returned just as quickly as it had come. Lucius swiped his own card to open it once more, and suddenly the slight spike had become a twisting knife. Jason was no longer presumed dead. Alfred and Bruce on the other hand... They had been debating whether it would be safe for Alfred to come with them. In the end, Jason had been the one to insist that Alfred stay in the car. As much as it pained him to not have him there, he would not risk blowing Alfie’s cover. Now, as Lucius and Dick headed for the elevator while Alfred stayed behind, he wanted to kick himself for it. The reassuring squeeze of Alfie’s hand on his shoulder didn’t do much to calm Jason’s nerves. Neither did the feeling of climbing twelve floors in four seconds.

Barbara and the others were waiting for them, stopping just long enough to make sure that everyone was accounted for, before Lucius started leading them along the dead, dark halls of the Medical R&D floor. Some of the machines buzzed and hummed quietly in the background, little standby lights glowing like fireflies in the dark, and Jason felt a shiver run down his spine. Office buildings and laboratories were pretty high on the list of ‘places that look unnervingly lifeless, but not quite’ in the dark, but somehow he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it than that. Only as they approached the room titled ‘Intensive Treatment’ on the far north of the floor and the glow of bright light coming from it, did he finally realize what was going on in his brain.

“Lucius...” The CEO of WE looked down at him with the same warm half-smile he had always had when talking to Jason, usually to speak about his design sketches. Only this time, there was an unmistakable flicker of concern in his eyes. “Please tell me that room isn’t tiled.”

That made everyone stop in their tracks. He could hear Dick suck in a sharp breath and see Tim and Barb look at each other with quick nods that confirmed they all knew exactly where this was going. Lucius, thankfully, seemed to be oblivious. “It is not, Jason.”

“Good.” He took a deep breath, hoping the memories would go down straight with it. “Let’s do this then.”

Lucius was right. The room was not tiled. It was, however, a perfectly white pre-surgery prep room like something straight out of a TV show. Gotham had many hospitals and Jason had been to each of them at least once. None of them could hold a candle to this place in terms of cleanliness. The thought made him scoff. Nothing but the best for Wayne Enterprises of course. A gurney was waiting in its center, complete with an IV and straps and everything else they might need. He swallowed the memory of a drill going through his calves and decided to scan the rest of the room for any more potential dangers instead.

“Ms. García.”

The woman by the nearby desk got up and turned around quickly, reaching out to shake Lucius’ extended hand, and Jason felt his breath hitch for a moment. He wasn’t exactly sure who or what he had been expecting, but somehow the first thing his mind could come up with now was the memory of Mason’s dorm in training facility Alpha in the Venezuelan jungle, the one that had been everyone’s favorite hang out place outside of relaxation room, thanks to Mason plastering every blank surface of that dorm with Alberto Vargas’ pin-up paintings. As introductions were made and hands were shaken, all he could think of was that she was either secretly the granddaughter of that girl from the ‘yes, ma’am, I’m sure he’s in the bath’ picture or life had just decided to fuck him over once more.

“And last but not least, your patient, Jason,” Lucius finally explained and all he could do was swallow, nod and try really hard not to think of the stupid poster in Mason’s stupid dorm, or the burn scars on his own hands, or the ugly, damning brand on his face for that matter, as he looked up at her and shook her extended hand.

“Miranda García, Biomedical Engineer. At your service.”

“Pleasure.”

It wasn’t. Not really. This was just his luck. Pretty face? Check. Insane curves? Check. Legs for days? Check. Circumstances of first meeting: stuck in a wheel chair, injured and scarred from head to toe.

_Fuck my life._

“Alright then...” If any of his thoughts were showing on his face, Ms. García did not react to them. With the way she sat back down in her swivel chair just a few feet away from him, hands folded calmly on her legs, he might almost have thought that she did this every day. “You probably want to get all of this over with as quickly as possible, but there are two things I want to be very clear about: number one, there is no such thing as a ‘stupid question’. If you want to ask something, just ask. Secondly, if you change your mind at any point, if you no longer feel comfortable going through with this, we will stop. Okay? No questions asked, no blame pushed. You say the word and we all go home and just forget this meeting ever happened. Alright?”

“Alright.” The word tasted bland and dry in his mouth. His gaze wandered to the whiteboard above the desk, littered with notes, hasty sketches of molecular structures and lots of medical lingo that borderer on a new class of stenography. “Question one, what exactly is the plan?”

“The plan...” he watched her reach into the freezer next to the desk to retrieve a glass cylinder the size of a soccer ball. Inside, a gray sort of sponge that was suspiciously shaped much the same as the hole in his flank rested calmly again the glass. “... is this. Please be careful with it. Don’t shake it. Don’t move it.” It was Tim who took the glass from her and placed it in Jason’s lap. Up close, the material looked like little more than the average crafting foam from a DIY store. “It is a non-toxic, bio-degradable, lightweight mesh of synthetic fibers, 3D-printed and cut to precisely match the size and shape of your injury, as indicated by the scans Mr. Drake gave to me. The holes of the mesh are microscopic, invisible to the naked eye, but they are filled with what we have code-named CREEM, a crystallized—“

“Regenerative, enhanced extracellular matrix,” Jason finished for her. “That’s the stuff that is usually found in between different cells of the human body right?”

“Right.” A small nod. A quick smile. “Except that this is an artificially _enhanced_ matrix. I can give you the entire bio-chemical background story if you insist, but then we’ll be here until dawn. Long story short, everybody has it by default and it does two things to your body: it prevents your immune system from reacting to the injury by inflammation and scarring, and secondly, it stimulates the surrounding cells into repairing tissue. It is a natural process. As a matter of fact, your body destroyed and rebuilt two entire sets of kidneys before you were even born. Sadly, once the body is fully developed, it decreases in efficiency. Wounds smaller than two millimeters get closed through regeneration. Wounds larger than that scar.”

“And you somehow managed to get past the two-millimeter mark?” Dick sounded somewhere between doubtful and astounded. Jason couldn’t blame him. It did sound too good to be true.

“It was a lucky find,” García admitted. “The current main project in this lab is re-vitalization and re-growth of nerve tissue. The research topic for my Master’s thesis is combining 3D printing and crystallized EM to replace muscle tissue. I had been stuck for weeks and I was at the end of a fourteen-hour Friday when I accidentally injected the stimulants used for the nerve tissue into a sample for my thesis. I remember cursing a blue mile and nearly chucking it into the garbage when one of my senior colleagues told me to leave it be. You know, just to see what would happen. Came back on Monday to find that my little petri dish had grown a quarter inch of perfectly viable muscle. Using the 3D-printed mesh, I’ve been able to bridge gaps of up to six inches across. I’ve been testing it on various lab animals for five months now.”

“Well, they do say the most common words in science are not ‘eureka’ but ‘hey, this is strange’...” That earned him short, high-pitched laugh, but he was too focused on the little sponge of 3D printed weirdness in his lap to see if it came with an equally bright smile. “So, where is the catch?” There was always a catch. Life had an unbreakable habit of biting him in the ass when he least expected it.

Well, he was expecting anything right now.

“Two limitations. It works perfectly for muscle, tendons and ligaments, but so far we have not been able to stimulate the same growth in nerve cells. You will re-grow the muscle you lost, but the entire spot will remain pretty much numb to most forms of stimuli – touch, temperature, tension, pain, you name it.”

Jason could see where that would be a problem. Pain was the body’s natural warning response to indicate that something was very definitely not right. Without it, even life-threatening injuries would be flying right under his radar. He would have to check his flank for damage after every fight. “What’s the second limitation?”

“We’ll have to be very, very careful not to let any of it touch your skin.” Whatever easiness had been swinging under her voice was suddenly gone. He knew that tone. He had heard it from Alfred often enough. This was the ‘no nonsense unless you want to seriously injure yourself’ voice that everyone in the medical field seemed so fond of. “One thing I have consistently observed in my tests is that the CREEM causes skin tissue to re-grow too fast. The results range from deformed and ugly to downright cancerous, which is why we will cover the top of this mesh with an impenetrable strip of gauze and medical glue that will prevent it from getting into contact with your skin cells. I’m afraid it will be very painful to remove once the process is complete and the skin that will eventually grow over it will scar significantly. I’m sorry.”

Jason could only scowl at that. “Do I look like one more scar’s gonna make a difference?”

“Every scar makes a difference, because every scar is a memory.”

 _And you are definitely speaking from personal experience._ He managed to bite back the comment before it slipped from his tongue, but the signs were right there. The somber undertone of the words. The quick tensing of the muscles in her face. The sudden, haunted look of past trauma in those big, dark brown eyes.

“So... do you still want to do this?”

“Yes.”

For once, there was an easy answer to a question in his life. What choice did he have? This was his only chance of regaining full functionality in his left abdominal muscle structure. Tim, Barbara, Alfred and Lucius had already gone to great lengths to arrange this operation. Dr. Thompkins had already taken time out of her more than busy schedules to get this done. Hell, Dick had voluntarily ditched patrol to be here. He couldn’t chicken out now and he wouldn’t. He could do this. He would get the stupid surgery, be the stupid human guinea pig, re-grow that muscle and then get back in shape.

_Focus on what you want to achieve, and it will happen._

“What are we waiting for? Let’s get this over with.”

That, of course, was everybody’s cue to get moving. He watched as Dr. Thompkins and Ms. García readied the stretcher for him while Barbara retrieved the glass cylinder and moved aside. Getting onto the gurney was trickier than usual, what with it being a mobile platform, but Tim and Dick held it in place as he shifted his weight onto the sheets. The hoodie came off easily enough, but the sheer cold of the lab sent shivers through his torso. That, and the feeling of an IV line being put into his right arm, and his left arm being secured with straps to the side, to give Dr. Thompkins enough room for the operation. If it hadn’t been for Barb, Tim, Dick and Lucius being right there, he would have been more than tempted to make a break for it. The bandages came off quickly and without the slightest bit of pain. The gauze not so much. He managed to suppress the instinctive flinch at the stinging sensation only to wince anyway as the woman who had created this new technology came over to inspect the wound. First time a cute girl who was not his sister saw him half-naked and he was strapped to a gurney, looking like hell. Just his rotten luck.

 _Newsflash, kiddo_ , Joker’s grating voice rose from the darkest depths of his mind. _You always look hideous. I made sure of it._

Jason trembled at the frighteningly realistic echo inside his skull, as the scars came alight one after the other. Joker was right. He had marked every square inch of him, clear for all to see who dared to look. He wanted to vanish into the fucking pristine floor. He wanted to get up and walk, no, run, out of there, then punch his way through dozens of bad guys until he would start to feel better.

 _But you can’t run, can you, Todders?_ He could almost see him standing there, flicking his fingers against the line with the IV fluid. _Strapped to a gurney, broken bones, pumped full of drugs... This is going to be fun!_

He wasn’t sure what had given his quickly rising panic away, but suddenly Dick was there, crouched down, blocking his line of sight and smiling what he probably believed to be a re-assuring smile as his fingers brushed over Jason’s right shoulder. “Jason, please look at me. Jason—“

“It’s started scarring.” The displeasure was clear in her voice and for a moment Jason could have sworn he could see Bruce standing there, crystal-clear, scowling that usual disappointed scowl of his. Somehow, that felt more real than Dick’s soothing murmurs. Or perhaps it just cut deeper. Either way, he found himself prying his eyes off the floor – _not tiled, very definitely not tiled_ – and back onto the woman examining him. “You didn’t tell me the wound had started to scar.”

“And that’s a problem?” Dick sounded half-annoyed, half-worried, and looked the part too.

“Yes and no. This procedure only works on open injuries, not on tissue that has already scarred. Upside, we won’t have to worry about the skin level anymore. Downside, we’ll have to cut open all the muscle tissue beneath it that has scarred over.”

The smile fell from Dick’s face in a second, only to be replaced by shocked horror. “What?! We came here to fix it, not make it worse!”

“Oh suck it up, Dickie,” Jason grunted against Joker’s laughter. “Sometimes you gotta break a few eggs to make an omelet.” _Sometimes, you gotta be cruel to be kind..._

“This is not a bunch of eggs, Jason,” Dick protested. “We’re talking about your flesh, here!”

“Yes, _MY_ flesh!” If he had had his right hand free, he would have swatted Dick’s arm away in an instant. Instead, he bucked his shoulder in a gesture that made it unmistakably clear that he did not want anybody’s fingers anywhere near him anymore and glared at him in exasperation. “It’s my fucking body, so I get to decide what happens to it. And I say, let Leslie cut me open and stick the stupid sponge into my side! It’s not your fucking muscle that needs re-growing! Now vete a llorar pal valle, pinche ladilla!”

He had predicted Dick’s confusion at half the phrase at least. After all, they had all been educated in the perfectly clear and boring standard castellano vernacular of Spanish, and Bruce had very deliberately left swear words out of the curriculum. That in and of itself was an offense as far as Jason was concerned. Figuring out just how pissed off his enemies were, judging from the insults they hurled at him, had always been half the fun in a fight. What he had not predicted was the woman examining him breaking into clear laughter.

“That is not a nice thing to say to your brother.”

Just his fucking luck. “You from Venezuela?”

“Born and raised in Guatemala,” she chuckled in response. “But I’ve met enough people from the south to recognize a few words.”

“So, what exactly did he just call me?”

Jason rolled his eyes at that. To his left Dr. Thompkins and Ms. García were waiting, dressed in surgical clothing and with what looked suspiciously like an anesthetic in hand. “Hit me, already. Let’s get this over with before I change my mind. Or deck Mr. Sunshine here in the face.”

If there was any more discussion of his Spanish swearing, Jason didn’t hear it. He watched as Dr. Thompkins injected the fluid into the IV line connected to his arm, closed his eyes, and was gone before he had counted to ten.

***

The first thing Jason noticed upon rising slowly from the depths of a deep and oddly dreamless slumber was that everything felt fuzzy somehow, softer even than the ridiculously comfortable bed he’d been stuck in since late December, although he was pretty sure he could feel that beneath his back, too. But this? This was more. It felt as if he was floating on a sea of foam, smooth and cozy and slightly unnerving in just how _unnatural_ it was. He felt the sensation of dread grow steadily in his stomach as his brain tried to make sense of what was going on.

The last time he had felt like this, he had been drugged, knocked out by a tranquilizer dart shot by one of the Swans’ thugs, before being dragged back to safety by Nightwing.

 _Nightwing. Dick Grayson. The human furnace. The human octopus._ Somehow, that thought brought to mind an entirely different set of sensations that he had mostly been able to ignore so far. He felt warm, more so than he probably should have, given that he could feel the weight of what was almost certainly a blanket covering him through the thin fabric of his shirt. He could also feel the way the mattress shifted as something – or someone – moved to his right, as well as the brush of hot fingers over his exposed forearm.

 _Dick?_ It wasn’t impossible. They had done this same thing just three nights ago, if he recalled correctly. If today really was Monday, January 9 th, 2017, as some part of his brain seemed determined to make him believe. He had no way of knowing. It was as if everything was one massive haze, one giant blur, and his brain struggled to make out the details.

 _Focus_ , not-Robin insisted. _Focus on what you want to achieve, and it will happen._

They – he and Barbara – had talked about a potential treatment for the hole below his ribcage. Then they had cracked open a bottle of Captain Morgan and a downright pitiful little box of Marlboros that proved Barb knew her pipe tobacco thanks to her dad, but she knew shit about cigarettes. Or perhaps she had deliberately picked some of the blandest of the bunch. Perhaps this had been her way of subtly urging him to quit. He wouldn’t put it past her. He had argued with her that it was not an addiction, just a temporary, last-ditch stress relief. Barb had told him to tell it to the tooth fairy. Then she had drenched the remaining stack of cigarettes until they were beyond salvaging and buried them in the garbage bin under a pile of kitty litter.

The blood sample she had taken from him had come back clean, and now that he thought back on it, Jason remembered just how dumbstruck those news had left him. No more fear gas. No more weird, previously unknown chemicals. He wasn’t sure exactly how his liver and kidneys had come out of that in one piece, but the idea of being completely free of chemical hazards had seemed downright ridiculous. A few calls later, Lucius had been pleased to inform them that he had scheduled a meeting for them on Monday the 9th, after hours, at WE’s Medical R&D department. It had sounded too good to be true then. It still sounded too good to be true now. He inched his right hand forward along his stomach slowly, trying to find the spot where he knew the bite wound began. If he was right, then they really had gone to Wayne Enterprises. He had had a chat with the inventor of this new treatment – _Miranda García, the girl from Guatemala with a biomedical engineering degree under her belt, who had looked like she had walked straight out of a Vargas painting_ , his mind somehow offered him in a sudden moment of clarity. Then somebody had injected an anesthetic into his IV, knocking him out flat so Dr. Thompkins could get to work.

If he was right.

If he was right, then there should be a somewhat solid surface instead on an empty void right—

“Please don’t, Little Wing.” Strong fingers curled around his hand gently, careful not to injury his broken digits as they led his arm back to his side. “No inspecting the wound without medical supervision. Doc’s orders.”

 _Medical supervision.._. Well, there was only one person in the manor who fit that bill and he was not here. At least not if he wasn’t completely mistaken about his current company. At last, Jason managed to lift his eyelids, although the thin skin still felt like lead. He rolled his head to the right slowly and came face to face with a pair of very awake eyes in a very not awake face under a shock of smooth, black hair.

“Dick?”

“The one and only.” The toothy grin was only slightly marred by a quick yawn. “Please don’t aggravate your wound. It will take at least a full day for your muscle tissue to connect to the mesh. Plus, that thing’s suppressing your immune system. You don’t want to expose that wound right now.”

As much as Jason hated to admit it, Dick was right. If this thing really did suppress his body’s natural protective reactions, then tampering with it was bound to be a very, very bad idea. Unfortunately, his newly-made decision to keep his hands off the injury only increased the previously mild tickling sensation he hadn’t even been aware of. Now, it was as if a colony of ants was dancing in circles around the bite.

“It itches like crazy. I thought she said I wouldn’t feel anything.”

“That’s the old tissue by the edge of your wound,” Dick corrected, “not the new tissue that’s growing. It’ll be ok, Little Wing. Just try to get some sleep, ‘kay?”

 _Sleep!_ Jason scowled at that. _Fucking nerves on this guy!_ Two minutes ago, it might have worked, when his eyelids had still been heavy and his body had still been feeling like it wasn’t quite there in the real world yet, but now he was too awake for his own good. The ants were crawling under his skin and his mind was racing into a hundred directions at once, merrily going down the long laundry list of complications that could possibly arise from this latest surgery he had gotten. The potential for further injury and infection he could deal with. That was nothing Alfred and Dr. Thompkins would not be able to fix, even though it would make the injury even worse than it had been already.

But the fallout from bringing another person into this mix? Sure, they had all showed up in civvies, and no one had said a single word about any of their secret identities. If he recalled correctly, Tim had said he had explained his recent injuries away as a chance encounter with Croc when Jason went for a jog near the Narrows, where many people had recently mysteriously disappeared, but just because the good scientist had not questioned the story did not mean that she believed it. Sure, Lucius had made it very, very clear to her that, as much as he thanked her for allowing a good friend to volunteer for this experimental procedure, it _was_ still an experimental procedure, and if she lost a single word about it to anyone, he would make sure that her career in any field of serious, scientific research and development would be going down the drain faster than she could blink. However, in his own personal experience, people were utterly unreliable, undependable, walking mishaps waiting to occur at the worst possible time. Even if she had really meant it when she had said ‘not a word to anyone, I swear on my sister’s grave’, everyone fucked up sooner or later. Everyone.

“Christ, I wish the fucking robots would just take over already!”

To his right, Dick mumbled something incomprehensible into his pillow, but Jason chose to ignore it. The laptop was right there, on the drawer beside his bed. He stretched out his left arm to reach for it and wrapped his fingers slowly around the casing. It was almost ridiculous how heavy the damn thing felt in his tired hand, but hey, he only had to get it from the drawer over to his body. That was about – what – seventy or eighty centimeters? He could do this. He could—

Halfway through the effort, gravity decided to prove him wrong. He could see the notebook fall from his hand, feel it slip between his fingers, almost in slow motion. Despite the fluffy carpet throughout the room, the crash the little box of plastic and silicon made as it connected with the floor was somehow loud as thunder in his ears. The charger cable conveniently took the lamp on the drawer with it, adding crashing metal and glass to the symphony. Only a second later, Dick was wide awake, flipping himself into a crouching position and scanning the room for any sign of intrusion. As soon as his eyes fell upon the mess on the floor, the look of alertness made way for a deep sigh and what looked suspiciously like sadness mixed with exasperation.

“Jason—“

“Yeah, yeah, I know, stop breaking shit. I don’t need the lecture.” He really didn’t. This was _not_ his fault. He wasn’t entirely sure what they had used for a fucking anesthetic, but clearly the stuff had left him dazed, disoriented and debilitated. “What the fuck did you guys shoot me up with?”

“Something that was supposed to knock you out for four hours, followed by a series of repeat shots to keep you from pulling stunts like this for at least twenty-four,” Dick answered, very definitely displeased with the situation at hand as he untangled the lamp and put it back on the drawer. He picked the laptop up and dusted it off as though that would make it less broken. “Look, Jason, you can wreck this entire room, if you want, though I’m sure Tim and Barb would appreciate it if you didn’t, but please stop risking any more damage to your own body. Please!” Whatever aggression had been laced into the words seeped out of him in an instant. “Next time, just ask, okay? I _know_ you hate being stuck in bed. I _know_ you get bored and frustrated easily. We both do. I would have given you the laptop, no questions asked.”

“You were asleep,” Jason replied tersely, although he knew it was an uphill battle. Dick was a beast about caring for the people he considered friends or family. He might as well have argued with a wall.

“Well, I’m not anymore,” Dick pouted as he put his copy of The Neverending Story perfectly balanced half on the wheelchair, half on the bed, stuck the notebook on top of it, and crawled back underneath the sheets on the other side, his head perched up on one hand so he could see the screen come to life as Jason’s fingers raced across the keyboard. “So, what are we watching?”

“Crime scene photos.” Typing with only his left hand was a pain, but he was slowly getting used to it. More importantly, he could feel his mind slowly return from the realm of horrible what-ifs into the grim and gritty, but beautifully certain and reliable dimension of work. “The St. Augustine stabbings, to be precise.”

That got him an eye roll in return. “That’s Blüdhaven, Jason.”

“I know.”

“It’s my turf.”

“Last I counted, you had sixty-four open cases and eleven unprocessed crime scenes on your tally.”

“Forty-eight and six when I went to bed this morning,” Dick argued. “I’d say Barb and I are working through that backlog efficiently enough without having you worry about it.”

Jason couldn’t suppress a little laugh as he brought up the pictures in all their bloody glory. Whoever had done this was either seriously into blood and guts and gore, or very definitely not in control of their own hands. “You think Barb’s the only one who’s been working on your files? Newsflash, Dickie: I always work when I’m bored. Now go back to sleep. You look like hell.”

He really did. Dick was good at concealing it under a disarming smile and near-perfect manipulation of his facial muscles into looking like he was completely at ease, but Jason could feel what was wrong. There was a certain kind of constant fatigue and tension that came with their field of work that was undetectable to most people, but clear as daylight to him, like dogs recognizing each other simply by smell.

“I’m alright, Jay. I’ll sleep when I’m de—“ To his credit, Dick managed to snap his mouth shut just in time. “... when I’m definitely not pre-occupied with my brother’s immediate physical and emotional integrity.”

“You are _always_ pre-occupied with _someone’s_ physical and emotional integrity,” Jason countered as he hacked into BPD’s employment records. Dick had been hired and fired since he had last gone through a crawl in there, yet somehow they were still using the same passwords and ‘security’ protocols. At this point, he was about eighty-five percent convinced that it was deliberate tampering rather than innocent incompetence. “You are a human-shaped, emotion-driven octopus who latches on to everyone who hangs around long enough and I’m pretty sure hell will freeze over before you are not ‘pre-occupied’.”

The pout Dick gave him in return was almost stuck halfway between accusing and guilty. Thankfully, it was followed by Dick tucking in his arm and burrowing into his blanket again. “Well, at least you didn’t call me a ‘fucking crab louse’ this time.”

Jason scowled. Apparently, he had been right. She really was a fucking traitor.

***

In the end, they hadn’t needed the sedatives. Work, and the distraction it provided, had always been the surest method to keep him focused and occupied. It had helped taking his mind off the tickling along the edges of the wound, which had thankfully faded out of existence after the first two days. Even more importantly, it had felt good watching the stack of unsolved cases shrink slowly but steadily, even if they were not his own. As much as Dick had appreciated the help, in-depth discussion of some particularly tricky cases had once again reminded him why Dick Grayson was a phenomenon best enjoyed in small dosages. They might have been taught by the same man, but where Dick had chosen to go the way of the law, sticking to every single rule in the book like some idealistic goody two-shoes, Jason had long since resigned himself to the fact that not everyone operated within the rules and not everything could be resolved ‘by the book’ the ensuing argument that would definitely have mutated into a full-out fight had Tim not stepped in had left both of them raw and seething. Eventually, Dick had gone back to his books. Jason had gone back to sleep. If he was going to sacrifice six hours a day to blackness and nightmares, Dick’s story-telling project was as good a time as could be.

On the bright side, neither Barbara nor Tim had objected to his preference of work over leisure. Although perhaps work in this case really was leisure. He had forgotten how much fun it could be to join Barb in tearing through databases and systems they were not even supposed to know of. True to form, Babs had answered his request for more work by immediately handing him a list of carefully-filtered casefiles. The absence of anything related to Joker was obvious and telling, but at the same time, he couldn’t quite decide whether that was a good thing or not.

Tim, on the other hand, had avoided that can of worms entirely by being content to make sure that Dick got his six hours of daily sleep – now back on the couch – and by working through his own set of on-going cases, while Jason dug into the issues of Neuroscience Monthly and the American Forensic Journal that he had missed over the last six years. Sure they had read them to him while he had still been knocked out, but that only meant ninety-nine percent of it had flown under his radar anyway. Now was as good a time as any to catch up on what he had missed. As a pleasant side-effect, the first time he had crumpled up a page in a quick fit of fury – the article had been outdated even in 2012 when it had been first published and how this had made it past a halfway intelligent editor was anybody’s guess – he had apparently discovered the holy grail of unity for the Drake Manor cats. The younger Siamese mix and the elder Persian diva had had a blast playing with the useless little ball of paper. He had consequently spread them out over every room of the manor and while the Christmas tree had already been taken down, the new toys had saved quite a number of other decorative elements from an untimely demise.

That left him with six hours of the day to spare and even though they usually began with Alfred changing the dressing of his freshly-treated side wound to make sure that if was healing alright and not ending up inflamed – he had no more feeling in that part of his body after all – they still always turned out to be the best six hours of his day. Alfred didn’t ask questions. Alfred didn’t demand. Alfred didn’t criticize. To Alfred, he was not Jason Todd, the Red Hood, previously Arkham Knight, previously Robin. To Alfred, he was simply Master Todd. To other people, cooking dinner, cleaning dishes, feeding cats and chatting about the latest news from the weather to international crises might have seemed like a bore from start to finish, but somehow, midnight to six always ended up being the most relaxing part of his day. More relaxing than sleep. More relaxing than reading. More relaxing than working. On good days, it almost made him forget where he was and why.

Sunday the 15th had not started out as a good day.

Another blizzard had rolled into Gotham, and while the manor’s electricity and heating had survived the onslaught without any damage, the same could not be said for any of its inhabitants. Despite Gotham being on a mandated curfew thanks to the extreme weather, Tim had somehow managed to catch a nasty cold that left him quarantined in his room. After all, there was someone in the house whose immune system was currently shot to hell. Dick had nearly gotten himself gutted on the job, just narrowly avoiding an ambush by a dozen of White Swan’s men, whose ivory gang clothes had blended perfectly with the snowy chaos around them. The final nail in the coffin had been a valiant, but ultimately failed attempt of Barbara’s to juggle a kettle of boiling water for tea and a cat that just would not get out of her way, which had left her with her hands burned red. She was still stuck in the kitchen with her hands under a steady stream of cold water when the door bell rang.

“Stay here,” Jason admonished. Barbara was just as stubborn as the rest of them, even if she had never lived in the manor during Bruce’s time. “I mean it, Barb. Ten minutes at least, or those burns will give you hell for the next two weeks.” He waited for her short nod before turning around and heading for the front door. One person with burn scars on their palms was enough for this house.

The first gust of freezing air hit him in the face with all the subtlety of a sledge hammer and dumped a sandbag’s worth of snow right in front of his feet. For once, Alfred did not ask for an invitation to step through the doorway and into the hall. He slammed the door shut as quickly as could. Given the amount of snow Alfred’s coat had accumulated on the way from the car to the door, Jason was surprised he had made it to the manor at all. “I can see why they came up with the curfew.”

“Yes, the weather is quite ghastly today, Master Todd,” Alfred agreed as he shrugged out of his coat and hat and hung them up to dry off. “But since when has that ever stopped anybody in this house from setting foot outside?”

Jason couldn’t help grinning at that. Unfortunately, reality kicked back in soon enough. “Well, Tim’s asleep in bed whenever he’s not coughing his lungs out, Dick had to come home early thanks to a pretty deep knife wound and Barb just burned her hands on a kettle of tea, so... not the best night in the office I’d say.”

If Alfred was impressed, upset or even the slightest bit rattled by these news, he did not show it. He went for Barbara first, hugging her shortly before turning off the tap and examining her hands. They descended to the secret basement together and Jason was not surprised to find Dick muting the comms unit of Barbara’s super computer before coming over to give Alfred a quick hug of his own. The injury was hidden by his sweater, but there was no hiding the quick flinch at pressure against the wound. Alfred’s brow furrowed into a slight scowl, as he half-shoved, half-dragged Dick into the infirmary, despite his insistence that, no, it wasn’t all that bad, and, yes, it had been cleaned and stitched and bandaged already. Alfie was having none of it and Jason grinned at the exasperated expression of surrender on Dick’s face as he shrugged out of one sleeve to bare the wound for inspection.

“I believe the word you are looking for is ‘Schadenfreude’,” Barbara mentioned with a slight chuckle, while typing away at one of the keyboards.

Jason frowned as he snatched her hand and tucked it back to her side. “I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘aggravation’. At least wait until Alfie’s had a look at it.”

“Which means ‘right about now’,” Dick mentioned from the doorway as he shrugged back into his sweater, before trading places with Barb and resuming his previous tasks.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen this casefile.” Jason narrowed his eyes as he scanned the pictures on the screen. There were question marks all over the place, but where Riddler’s traps were usually an erratic mess, this crime scene actually had a strange kind of symmetry to it, as if someone had taken a mirror-bladed guillotine to the center of the room. Including the two victims. “Since when is Eddie this organized?”

“Since he’s got Echo and Query,” Dick muttered in clear displeasure. “Remember? The two groupies who orchestrated the entire Blackgate debacle to get him out of there?”

He did, although not from first-hand experience. While everybody else had been at Blackgate, Jason had confronted and neutralized – killed, there was no sugar-coating it – Sophia Babiloni, Silenzio. While everybody had been trying to stop the likes of Penguin, Two-Face and Riddler from running free, Jason had been dragged into ACE Chemicals and nearly murdered by a giant, mutated crocodile man. Still, he would never forget those two women. One of them had aided Julian Day in setting up his ‘Newvember’ crime spree, then tried to claw Jason’s face off when he had confronted her at the Royal, while the other bitch had brain-washed Robin and delivered four innocent girls into the hands of the fucking Mad Hatter. They could both go to hell for all he cared.

“Yeah, I do remember. So who’s got this one?”

“Bruce.”

And that was all the conversation they were going to have about this topic. He retracted his hands from the computer as if it had been lit on fire. “Have fun. I’m not touching that one with a ten-foot pole.”

“Your anger is certainly understandable, Master Todd.” The door to the infirmary was still open and Barbara was still waiting inside, now with both her hands lightly bandaged. From the entrance to the room, Alfred looked at him in his usual stern yet warm manner. “However, it might please you to know that he has not even tried to go anywhere near the manor for the last two weeks, outside of delivering Master Grayson to the gates on Epiphany, nor has he made any further attempts to circumvent anybody’s boundaries and security measures.”

“Right...” He was absolutely ready to call bullshit on that when he noticed Barbara and Dick nodding in agreement.

“True. Last time he asked about you, it actually was just that. Just asking,” Barbara confirmed. “Even thanked me when I told him that you had not gotten any worse. Maybe he hit his head?”

“Or maybe Alfred’s epic lecture finally knocked some sense into that granite skull of his.”

That elicited a short cough from the butler, and Jason couldn’t help the spark of curiosity that somehow fought against his knowledge that this conversation could only end in tears. “If all it took to teach that dumbass some human emotion was a good lecture, then that problem would have been solved years ago.”

“Pardon me, Master Todd,” Alfred objected. “But it was no ordinary lecture. I have said and done a lot of things in my life that I wished I had never had to do, but what I said and did to Master Bruce this New Year’s Day certainly is among the top three items on that list. Still, it was necessary, and sometimes we have to make sacrifices. I do not share Master Bruce’s idealism. Sometimes, you have to kill a weed before new flowers can bloom.”

He froze in his chair. ‘Kill’ and ‘sacrifice’ were not words Alfred used very often and when he did, he never did it lightly. Just what the hell had Bruce done to get the man who had practically raised him, accompanied and supported him for thirty years and even aided him in faking his own death to use that kind of vocabulary in relation to a conversation between the two? “What the hell did you do to him, Alfie?”

“Something that was long overdue and more than necessary in order to fulfill my oath to serve the Wayne family,” Alfred explained patiently. “A family which includes three young men and one young woman, all in what should be the prime of their lives, rather than a period of physical and emotional pain.”

And somehow that family included him. Somehow that thought never ceased to be baffling. And frightening. And amazing. And daunting. And wonderful. And confusing.

He could practically feel the headache starting to sprawl from the center of his skull. This was not a conversation he was prepared to have. Not here. Not now. Not in front of Barb. Certainly not in front of Dick. Not in front of—

“So, speaking of suffering and members of the family... Next up: Tim?”

“No,” the chuckle was buried underneath the word, but it was definitely there in Dick’s voice. “Next up: you.”

“Me?” He raised an eyebrow at that. “What did I do now? I didn’t get myself burned or cut up. I don’t need any stitches or bandages.”

“No, you need a bucket of warm water and an oscillating saw,” Barbara corrected, although the smile on her face disappeared in a flash at the quick tremor the word ‘saw’ sent through him. “You don’t know what day it is, do you?”

“’Cut your brother open day’?”

“January 15th, 2017,” Alfred quickly interjected, before anybody had any chance to dig themselves deeper into their respective holes. “As in ‘precisely four weeks after occurrence of your injuries’ day. Do you remember what I told you about that day?”

He didn’t. Somehow he didn’t, although it was obviously important, and that did nothing to calm his nerves. He couldn’t think of dates or weeks. All he could think of were saws, ripping, gnawing, tearing into skin and flesh and—

“Your hand, Master Todd.”

Somehow, Alfred’s voice had made it past the insane cackling laughter in his skull, and Jason looked down at his hands in quick succession. What about his hands? Sure his left hand was currently sheet white from the sheer force with which he was gripping the armrest of his chair, but other than that it was perfectly fine; and his right hand was in a cast any—

_Oh._

His gaze flicked back and forward between his hand and Alfred. _Casts. Oscillating saws. Four weeks._ The feeling of hope and joy that was starting to bubble up in his stomach was almost ridiculous.

“We can finally remove the damn cast?!”

“If your bones are healed,” Barbara said. “So how about we go in there, get some x-rays of your hand and then take a saw to this stupid thing?” She knocked lightly on the part that extended to the back of his hand. If it makes you feel better, you can whack me over the head with it for accidentally triggering your PTSD when it’s all over.”

That forced a quick bout of laughter out of his throat somehow. How had he even missed this date? How had he not noticed—

It didn’t matter now. With a quick sigh, Jason followed Barbara as she made her way back into the infirmary and readied the x-ray scanner. Dick and Alfred were sharp on his heels, barely pausing to type a quick message – probably announcing their temporary absence – into the computer before joining them.

The image came out sharp and clear, showing all phalanges in perfect working order. Of course, three of them were only very freshly healed and he was sure he’d have to consciously remind himself not to put too much stress on them for the next two weeks, but at the very least the fucking cast was coming off. Now that he thought about it, the material started itching like a sack of fleas.

“Do you want some earplugs?” Dick hopped casually onto the MRI bed and earned himself a death glare from Barb in return. “Those saws get pretty loud. I can get you—“

“I’ll be fine.” He wasn’t half as sure about that as he sounded, but one thing he did know for certain: he wanted out of this damn thing. Now. No matter what. “It’s not my first cast removal, Dickie. Let’s just get this over with.”

“Alright then...”

He watched in mild dread as Alfred turned and retrieved the tools from a nearby cabinet. _Saw. Scissors. Spreader._ Yeah, this looked too fucking familiar. To his left, Barbara had wrapped both her hands carefully around his and he curled his fingers instinctively. The saw sprang to life with an ugly grinding sound that had him swallow hard.

_Not a tiled cell. Not the Joker. Not a drill. Not a coping saw. You’ll be fine. Alfred knows what he’s doing._

The latter part at least was right, and even though it had felt like an eternity, Jason knew it had only taken him half a minute to move the saw alongside the volar and dorsal side of his hand, dipping and raising to avoid overheating. The spreaders were next, popping the plaster open with a sharp snap that thundered in his ears. The scissors were cold against his skin, but thankfully blunted at the tip. A few seconds later, the two halves came off with a slight pop. As far as he could see, there was not a single cut or bruise on his hand. His fingers tried to curl almost instinctively, but the motion felt strange and disjointed, as if he was trying to use an old tool that hadn’t been touched in years.

“You okay, Little Wing?”

Dick was crouching in front of him, bringing the two of them almost to eye level. Given the slash in his side, it couldn’t have been a comfortable position.

“Itchy.”

That much was true. It still felt like he had stuck his hand in a bag of fleas. With a quick smile, Dick put a towel and a foot-long bowl of water in his lap.

 _Glorious, warm water_. Part of him wanted to cry for joy as he sunk his recently freed hand into the liquid and rubbed off the last bits of fabric and dust with his left hand. His fingers tickled as his blood vessels widened in response to the temperature change. At long last, his fingers finally bent again and he flexed them tentatively. Rusty, but no longer broken.

_Rusty, but not broken._

“Wow!” The smile came automatically. “You have no idea how fucking great this feels.”

“Maybe not,” Barbara agreed, “but you have no idea how great it feels to see you smile for a change. Like... ‘honest to god happy’ smile, not ‘I want the main part in this slasher movie’ smile.”

“I believe we can all agree in that matter,” Alfred said as he moved the tools back into the drawers they had come from. By the time he came back, feeling had finally returned to Jason’s finger tips. “ _Now_ we can take care of Master Drake, although I think in his case a decent helping of chicken soup should be sufficient.”

“You’re on your own there.” Dick threw up his hands in surrender. “I want to help my brothers, not poison them.”

“If you’d paid any amount of attention when you’d still been living here, that wouldn’t be a problem,” Jason lobbed back at him.

The tiniest hint of grin hushed across Alfred’s face. “Very true, Master Todd. Perhaps you would like to prove your point by giving me a hand?”

“Alfie...” Jason grinned back at him. “How about I give you two?”


	21. Clipped Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone – absolutely everyone – has nightmares every once in a while, and the worst ones are always the ones that are real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aka, proof that my unhealthy habit of torturing my characters does not stop at Jason and family roles and dynamics are not set in stone.

Ten cups of chicken broth.

Four ounces of egg noodles.

Four cups of shredded cooked skinless chicken breast.

Three diced medium carrots.

One large diced stalk of celery.

Three tablespoons minced fresh ginger.

Three tablespoons chopped fresh dill.

Six minced garlic cloves.

One tablespoon of lemon juice.

One dash of something extra. Sometimes chili. Sometimes lime. Sometimes a laurel leaf. Variety is the spice of life and all that crap.

It had taken him all of two days to memorize the base recipe, followed by another two days for his right hand to get used to the feeling of being needed and utilized once more. Dicing three fucking carrots shouldn’t have been so hard, but after the second time he had shaken out his hand, trying to get rid of the slight aching of an oncoming cramp, Alfred had made it very clear to him that he could either stop right there or be banned from the kitchen for the entire period of his stay at the manor.

It had been a no-brainer.

“Timbers must be getting sick and tired of this stuff by now.”

“Says the man who has been forced to chug down at least three protein smoothies a day for the last couple of weeks,” Barbara lobbed back at him with an amused smile. She might have looked like she had her nose buried in whatever casefile she was browsing on her laptop, but that didn’t mean she didn’t pay attention. Jason knew her better than that.

“Maybe,” He mused as he scanned the spice rack for something new and exciting to add to the same old boring soup, “but I’ll have you know that we’ve got eight base recipes for those smoothies with three variant flavors each.” He knew them all by now. Avocado, kale, cottage cheese, egg white, chia seeds, almonds, oats. Fresh milk, soy milk or coconut milk for everything, and apparently Alfred had instructed Tim and Barb to raid that food market in Otisburg that he and Jason had always visited on Sundays for a fruit list longer than Tim’s arm and about a hundred times healthier than anything either of them usually consumed. As a matter of fact, Barbara had been quick to assure him that – no matter how much grief and pain the last four weeks had brought them – at the very least it had elevated their dietary regimen to a standard that made her dread the day Alfred would return to Bracken for good.

Well, he was having none of it. If Barb and Tim wanted to stick their heads in the sand, dreading the inevitable loss of fine dining, that was entirely their choice. _He_ was going to do what he had always been doing since his first month in the manor. Watch and learn. Imitate and copy, until it wouldn’t matter anymore whether he was in Alfred’s generously stocked and sizeable kitchen or some half-empty fridge in his own safe-house. He had done it before, and he could damn well do it now.

“This chicken soup on the other hand,” Jason finally continued, “that’s been the same for four days now. I’d bet you every penny in my pocket that he won’t want to see another chicken for at least two weeks when this is over.”

“Of course you would.” Barbara grinned at him over the screen. “Seeing as you don’t _hav_ e a single penny in your pocket to lose right now.”

Jason rolled his eyes. _Leave it to Barbara to be the literal genie again_. The corners of Alfred’s mouth twitched upwards ever so slightly and that did not make it any better in the least. “Fine. Whatever.” He reached for the little can to the very left of the shelf and watched Alfred’s brow furrow instantly.

“Are you sure you want to add that, Master Todd?”

“It helps relieve pain, stimulates the appetite and it will have the added side effect of getting his ass out of bed at last. If only to come down here and deck me in the face for putting it in. And I’ll have you know that in Northern Qurac people say the only thing it can’t fix is death.”

“One, you’re assuming he’s even going to eat it,” Barbara countered as she joined them by the stove. “Two: since when do you know about Northern Quraci food sayings?”

Jason shrugged his shoulders at that. “Did a couple of live fire field exercises with the militia back in the day, plus the occasional odd job to keep the money flowing.” Somehow, all of that seemed like a lifetime ago now, even though it had only been two years. Most of the men were still in jail. Some that were smart had jumped ship just in time and were now avoiding Gotham like the plague. Some had made it very clear that they wanted the Knight hanged with his own guts – he wondered if they knew just how much of that seemingly pointless chatter over supposedly safe lines could end up in the ears of someone who knew when, where and how to listen – and some he had never heard from again. Not in the ‘retired to a beach in the Cayman Islands and fuck you all up your asses’ kind of unheard, but the haunting, dreadful silence of a corpse. Those were on him, too. “Spoilers: it ain’t all true. This stuff don’t cure shrapnel wounds and limbs severed by IEDs.”

“Perhaps it may at least cure Master Drake’s sullen mood then.”

“Like two negatives making a positive?” Barb grinned as she set the tray straight in her lap and added a pair of bowls and spoons. “I guess I’d better keep him company and make sure he _does_ eat.”

She waited just long enough for Alfred to set the pot and ladle on the remaining empty tray space before steering out of the kitchen with a grace and ease that made Jason’s gut curl with a twinge of jealousy. Of course Barbara had held true to her word. She had exchanged his motorized wheel chair for a manual one, she had shown him all the little tricks – how to move fastest and yet with precision, how to put the least amount of pressure on his fingers – and yet he was miles, light years even, away from being as good at this as she was. On this cold and dreary January morning alone he had nearly crushed his freshly heeled fingers twice and had slightly miscalculated angles on his way from the bedroom to the kitchen five times, leaving him feeling like a drunken frat boy trying to park his dad’s Mercedes in a parking space made for a Golf. Well, at least what he assumed a drunken frat boy about to wreck his dad’s favorite car would feel like.

He would be damned if he’d tell anyone.

“So, what are we going to have for dinner?”

That, at least, was a safe subject, although the minute furrowing of Alfred’s brow told him that the old man knew exactly what kind of game he was playing. At first, Alfred had met his request not to prepare any food before coming to the manor with raised eyebrows, but thankfully he had accepted nonetheless. There was an innate calm and assuredness to the way Alfred moved through a kitchen – particularly the manor’s kitchen – that was somehow comforting and grounding, proving a welcome respite from the turmoil that was the rest of his day. Even more importantly, it kept him busy, occupied with something so stupidly mundane and domestic that they would really have to dig hard to hit any triggers. It wasn’t impossible of course – nothing ever was – but he was willing to take his chances. If anything at all, being there when the food was prepared calmed down that stupid, paranoid parasite inside of him that assumed everything and anything was either spiked or outright poisoned.

“That depends,” Alfred finally answered. “What would you like to eat, Master Todd?”

“Me?” Somehow, that question still hadn’t ceased to stump him. It had felt strange the first time Alfred had asked, all those years back when he had still been a scrawny little street rat whose usual first answer to that was ‘anything as long as I don’ need to spend no money for it’, and it didn’t feel any weirder now. Even more so, it somehow felt... _unfair_. He watched silently as Alfred started filling up the sink with hot water, ready to clean up the cutting boards and knives they had just used, to make way for another round of chopping and mincing and stirring. “Alfie, when was the last time someone asked _you_ what you wanted to have for dinner?”

The pause was short, but it was there nonetheless. “Why, if I remember correctly that would have been you, in May 2011.”

“You’re kidding me.” It had to be a joke. It just had to. “Are you seriously telling me that neither Bruce nor Tim ever asked you that?”

“I don’t believe it ever came up,” Alfred admitted. “There is nothing wrong with that, though. I would never dream of holding it against either of them.”

“Well I’m gonna do more than dream,” Jason barked back. “Next time, I’ll be adding a damn tablespoon of the stuff. Good damn riddance.”

 _Fucking spoiled, rich brats._ Sometimes he forgot Tim could be like that. He hadn’t flaunted his wealth, he had assumed his post as new co-owner of Wayne Enterprises as quietly as he could, he seemed to hate the charity balls and the press interviews and all the other PR crap as much as any of them, and he had generally made a point of being as low-key about his social and financial status as anyone of his background could.

Yet, it was moments like these when it slapped Jason in the face again. The realization that – no matter how often they called each other family, no matter how much they pretended to be the same, there would always be this invisible wall of automated freakishness, brought upon by years of indoctrination on different ends of the social scale. It was as pathetic as it was infuriating.

“I really mean it, Alfie. What do _you_ want to have for dinner?”

To his surprise, Alfred actually stopped washing the dishes. From the way his face tensed, he was clearly giving the question at least some serious thought. When he turned around a minute later, the hesitation was gone, replaced by the unreadably neutral, yet warm expression that was so typical of the old butler. “If it is not too much to ask, Master Todd, what with this ghastly, freezing weather outside, I am feeling very much tempted to try something from the more southern, tropical regions of this continent.”

 _Something from somewhere you have been over the last three years, wherever exactly that was_. Jason could practically hear the words underneath. It wasn’t that hard to figure out. That didn’t mean it was pleasant.

He _had_ had a lot of truly amazing food during his time in South America, he had to admit that. As a matter of fact, the two things most of his men had most often complained about – the ridiculous spiciness of the local food and the sheer heat of... pretty much everything – had been the two things he had enjoyed the most about his time spent south. Then again, the cooking had usually been done by one of the guys on cooking duty, who were trying to make the most of the local food offering, and while his responsibility and reputation as commander had given him the perfect excuse to look through food acquisition orders whenever he damn pleased, it had also presented him with the perfect obstacle for outright asking for the recipes.

“I do not suppose you would have a favorite?” Alfred ventured tentatively.

Did he? He tried to think back to his three years spent in Venezuela, Columbia and Santa Prisca without thinking of the militia. It was all a blur now, one day floating into the next. Back then, he hadn’t really cared about food or favorites. He had cared about getting strong again. Of a rebirth and revenge, and while nearly two years with Alfred and Bruce had left him with a deeply seated need to pick dishes that were both rich in protein _and_ varied and delicious, he hadn’t been paying too much attention until he had overcome his initial period of recovery from near starvation and food poisoning.

Until...

“Did you ever have Santa Priscan golden coconut chicken, Alfie?” Suddenly the memory was fresh and clear in his mind again. _Pollo coco de oro._ It had been August 25 th, 2012, nine days after Joker had tried to murder him, at the end of a very definitely not-glamorous journey as a stowaway onboard a Santa Priscan cargo ship. The little box of rice and chicken had cost him all of thirty pesos – little less than a dollar – but it had been the best thing he had had in months. Quite literally.

“I can’t say I ever did,” Alfred admitted. “Shall we see if we have everything we need?”

He knew the question to that answer even before he gave Alfred the list. After all, half the things going into this meal had already been on the list for the soup, or part of Alfred’s base recipes for the protein smoothies. “Do we have rice and red and green peppers?”

“It would be a sad day if we didn’t, Master Todd.”

“Good.”

With renewed determination, Jason set out to raid the fridge for the second round of cooking, while trying to ignore the unmistakable giant pink elephant in the room that was the parallelism of this meal. He hadn’t been wheel-chair-bound the first time he’d had it, but he hadn’t been anywhere near healthy either. Somehow, coconut chicken with rice had become his recovery food, much like chicken broth was the go-to remedy for the common cold. For once, Alfred stood by at the sidelines, quietly observing rather than actively directing workflow in the kitchen. It was nothing short of surreal and with every minute that passed, Jason felt the nagging little feeling of dread grow in his gut. Alfred took all his duties very seriously, but he outright _hated_ surrendering control of the kitchen. Something was very definitely off.

He was just about done chopping all the vegetables into tiny little cubes when his patience finally ran out. On the other side of the table, Alfred sat quietly, observing him with a calm yet sharp attentiveness and the tiniest hint of a smile that proved to be the proverbial straw to break the camel’s back.

“Alright, Alfie, this is ridiculous. What’s going on? Why are you looking at me like that? And why the hell are you letting me run your kitchen? I mean, normally you’d be up and about by now, telling me how this is your job and I shouldn’t trouble myself and all that crap, and watching me like I’m about to burn the house down.”

For a few seconds, that only seemed to encourage the smile, before it finally faded from Alfred’s lips. The deep sigh the old butler took was somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “I assume it does make sense that you would come to such conclusions, but if I recall correctly, the worst you ever did to Wayne manor was to break a few windows or the occasional piece of furniture or decoration. I can assure you, Master Todd, the only person I would trust to reduce this house to ashes would be your father. He has already done it once, after all.”

He didn’t want to laugh and he probably shouldn’t, but somehow that was actually funny. Apparently, what didn’t kill you did not only make you stronger, but gave you some really fucked up coping mechanisms and a morbid sense of humor, too. His ribs protested slightly at the unexpected workout, but at least it no longer hurt nearly as badly as it had done before. The lungs were worse, and he reached for his nearby glass of water quickly before the scarred tissue would send him right into a downright-spiraling coughing fit.

“Furthermore,” Alfred continued without missing a beat, “I quite enjoy watching you prepare dinner all on your own, given that I only removed your cast four days ago. How _is_ your hand, Master Todd?”

“My hand?” He flexed his fingers quickly and was greeted by little more than a slight feeling of tension. It was a far cry from the seemingly ever-present feeling of fatigue and rustiness that had accompanied him on his first day sans cast. “It’s not too bad actually.”

“Good enough to finish cooking?”

That was a good question. He could feel the first tingling of exhaustion at the base of his fingers, but when had that ever stopped a bat? “Only one way to find out.”

***

In the end, he had managed to finish the preparations all by himself, although he couldn’t recall if he had ever been happier about the invention of boil-in-bags basmati rice. They had watched the food cook slowly in the oven and on the stove over a game of backgammon – now with his uninjured left hand – which he had somehow managed to win. Four times in a row. At first, he had been dead sure that Alfred had been letting him win, until the butler shook his head at him.

“No, Master Todd. I can assure you I have become neither better nor worse at this game since the last time we played. You, on the other hand, have become quite the strategist.”

“Or maybe you’re just getting old.”

He had snapped his mouth shut instantly, but the damage was already done. Thankfully, the egg timer on the counter-top had spared him from hearing the answer to that. Barbara had arrived a few minutes later, just in time to join them for a small portion of what was a second dinner for her. Judging from the sour look on her face, it was one of those nights when she would definitely need it.

“You’d think...” Babs mused as she dug through her little bowl of rice and chicken, “... that a blizzard and fifteen degrees Fahrenheit would stop these lunatics from even setting foot outside, but somehow we’ve still had our hands full all night.”

It didn’t surprise him. The curfew that had been placed on Gotham as storm after storm had rolled over the city had only been lifted the night before. Of course all the rats were going to come crawling out of their little holes now. Jason scowled at her over his own bowl. “Didn’t stop Dick from going out there and you can bet your ass that Timbit and I would be on patrol, too, if we were in any shape to do it.”

“I know.” Barbara did not sound pleased. He was just about to remind her that Batgirl wouldn’t have shied away from duty for something as trivial as a blizzard either when the familiar sound of a custom-made motor cycle caught his attention.

“That’s odd. Since when does Dick come home early?”

“Probably still reeling from his fight with Bruce.”

“Fight?” That was news to him, although it was a lot less surprising than it would have been less than a month ago. Dick was the kind of person who could forgive almost anything in a heartbeat, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t remember. Elephants had shorter memory than Dick Grayson. “What about? Did Bruce try to break into the Clock Tower again?”

“No, although the ‘you are the last person any of us are ever going to trust ever again’ argument did come up.” The front door opened with a quiet creak, then slammed shut with enough noise to more than make up for it. There was no denying it: Dick was pissed. Barb swallowed the last few bites of her meal quickly. “We got a lead on this Joker copycat tonight. Dick went ahead to check it out without waiting for Bruce.”

“Did he have his trackers and comms unit on?”

“All of them, yes.”

“So?” Jason didn’t see the problem. That had been his fatal mistake six years ago. No trackers. No communications. Dick had once again been smarter and better on the job. Good for him.

“The lead was sending him straight to the Narrows.”

He could feel the hairs bristle on his arms. The Narrows. One of the shadiest areas in all of Gotham. A long stretch of piers and canals. The place where dozens of people had disappeared without a trace over the last few weeks. This _was_ bad news. “Well if Bruce gave him a good lecture, he deserved it this time. I think I already proved that a one-on-one against Croc is an insanely bad idea.”

“Except you didn’t do it on purpose,” Barbara argued and suddenly there was that cold fury in her eyes that had always made Batgirl so downright frightening, even to men twice her size. “Dick _knew_ what was going on and he still went there without waiting for back-up. I don’t care how many trackers he had on him. That was reckless and stupid. I honestly don’t know what it is with all of you guys, that you don’t seem to think before you leap. And Bruce didn’t exactly earn himself any favors. Apparently, he had been working on a Croc trap near the Narrows for the last two weeks and didn’t bother to tell any of us. Dick accidentally sprung the damn thing and nearly lost a leg. I swear, shouting match does not even begin to describe what happened between the two of them.”

There were probably at least a dozen things he could have said about that. About Bruce and his fucking chronic habit of not telling anyone anything. About Dick and his questionable assessment of the situation. About Barbara and her constant worrying. Instead, what made it out of his mouth was: “Did the trap involve at least six blocks of C4?”

With a deep sigh, Barbara finished her glass of orange juice and pushed herself away from the table. “You guys are all hopeless. I’m going to bed before you give me any more of a headache. Good night, Alfie.”

“Good night, Miss Gordon-Drake.”

He waited until she was out of the kitchen and counted to twenty before wolfing down the rest of his own portion. “I wasn’t even joking.”

“I know, Master Todd.” With methodical certainty, Alfred cleared the table and stacked the dishwasher. The machine came to life with a low rumble, comforting in the eerie silence of the manor’s kitchen. “And so does your sister. And your brother, too, though I would not count on him to make any rational decisions today.”

Jason couldn’t argue with that. Clearly tonight was one of those nights when Dick traded in sound reasoning for reckless endangerment. Thankfully, the clock had struck six then, signaling an end to yet another long night that had nearly ended in disaster for at least one of them. To his surprise, Dick was already waiting by the back door to the manor’s main hall, dressed in a set of BPD exercise clothes. He looked tired, and judging from the way he favored his left leg as he hugged Alfred goodbye for the day, ‘nearly lost a leg’ had not been an understatement.

“Fastest Robin, my ass...”

“Screw you, Jason.”

There was no bite behind the words. That should have been his first warning sign, but somehow it had flown right over his head then. They watched the car pull out of the driveway slowly, before disappearing into a whirlwind of black and white. After all, sunrise was not for another hour.

“So...” At last, Dick managed a smile. “Exercise?”

“Definitely exercise.”

The word still sounded slightly weird in his head, but with every second that he thought about, Jason felt his mood lift just a little. Now that his hands were reasonably recovered again – Barb refused to call them ‘fully healed’ and so did Alfred – he had finally been allowed down into the ‘normal’ basement, the one that even visitors to the manor got to see on occasion, with all its exercise equipment and the sparring mat and the swimming pool, and while he hadn’t gained any weight since his arrival at the manor, at least not as far as he could tell, he had lost some definition and probably at least a pound or two of muscle.

Naturally, his joy and excitement at having the chance to remedy that situation had promptly been ruined by the coffin nail that was Barbara’s well-intentioned, but eagle-eyed and uncompromising set of restrictions:

\- Arm muscle exercises only, to nobody’s surprise.

\- A maximum starting weight of five pounds per arm, which he had nearly laughed off until he had realized that Babs was actually dead-serious.

\- A maximum increase rate of doubling the weight once per week, which had immediately sent him scanning the room for potential sabotaging opportunities to increase the weight without her finding out, if that was even possible.

\- A set schedule of fifteen minutes of exercise at most, with the remaining forty-five minutes of the hour set aside for recovery, and a maximum number of five repeats per day. Six hours of gym time, only an hour and a half of which were actual workouts, which he had grudgingly accepted, knowing that it could be worse.

\- Last but not least, constant supervision during training by none other than his beloved older brother. When he had pointed out to her that Tim was stuck in bed – besides being older by little more than a year, so how was that even counting? – Babs had kindly informed him that she hadn’t meant Tim.

What he had said to her through the grinding of his teeth as he had swallowed the news had been ‘alright, got it’.

What he had really meant was ‘fuck me sideways with a telegraph pole’.

If he was being perfectly honest with himself, Jason knew he had been doomed the moment he had decided not to nick some cash from Babs’ purse and call for a cab as soon as he had finally been allowed to move around in the wheelchair, dressed in actual clothes. He really should have seen this coming, but somehow, some fucked up part of his mind had assured him that this was his _best_ choice and that it would be _just fine_ and that there was _nothing_ to worry about.

Well, now he had something to worry about – one-hundred and eighty pounds of over-bearing, overly-worried, too goddamn chatty big brother, who watched him like a mother hen each time he so much as looked at a dumbbell. Thankfully, Dick had displayed just enough tact and class to not show-boat in front of him while he went Drill Sergeant Nasty on his own rib cage each day, pushing the stupid bones to their limits as he worked on salvaging his biceps and triceps at least, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t hover, worry and shower him in what he probably thought to be encouragement and kindness, but what tempted Jason to put a fist into that handsome face on a daily basis. Of course he had gotten stuck with the one person who could be consistently perma-chipper and in-your-face-misguided-friendly for six hours straight. It was a typical Jason Todd kind of luck.

Except today Dick wasn’t constantly smiling and overbearing and friendly. Today, Dick was sullen and silent as he reached for a set of dumbbells of his own, parroting exercises that were definitely way too easy for someone in as fit a condition as the prodigal son.

It should have been his second warning sign, but instead it ended up being his first.

“Still sour about the jerk, huh?”

“No, I’m not.” The aggression in Dick’s voice was barely even veiled as he ditched the dumbbells and eyed the high bar, only to go for the heavy barbells instead.

 _Of course you’re not..._ Jason scowled at the sight. Dick had always hated weight training and the only reason why he would choose weights over gymnastics was that he was pissed off and looking for a fight. _Warning sign number two._

Had he been in any condition to have even a chance of winning, he might even have taken him up on it. Instead, he returned to his exercises. When Dick came over to him exactly fifteen minutes later, telling him to put down the weights and take a break, Jason wasn’t surprised. But Dick quietly grabbing a book from a nearby locker and plopping down right in front of it so he could read it in complete silence? That was more than surprising. It was concerning to say the least. He took a deep gulp from the water bottle he kept in the backpack strapped to his chair and took a deep breath.

“Hey, Goldie!”

“Yeah?”

 _Warning sign number three_. This passionless zombie wasn’t his brother. “Just what the fuck is going on?” When Dick merely continued to look at him like a deer in the headlights, Jason rolled his eyes in frustration. “For fuck’s sake, Dick, I know you. You don’t get this doom-and-gloom kind of moody without a good reason. Just do both of us a favor already and spill the beans.”

Dick seemed to ponder that for a second, then buried his face in his book again. “I had a fight with Bruce.”

“Liar.”

“It’s not a lie,” Dick grumbled into the pages. “I rushed ahead, botched a mission and got into a fight with Br—“

“I know that,” Jason interrupted. He could already feel his patience wearing thin and clearly Dick wasn’t in the mood for a long, drawn-out discussion either. “You’ve had fights with him before though. Never left you that kind of upset. You’re hiding something.”

“Maybe I am,” Dick lobbed back at him. At last, he looked up from his book. His eyes were hard, cold blue, far from the soft and gentle glimmer they usually held. “How about it, Jason: I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours. Why do you flinch every time you hear the sound of a drill?”

The scars in his feet and calves came alive in an instant, even despite his best efforts to push the memories down into the abyss where they belonged. Cold, unforgiving metal, turning and twisting, piercing skin and burrowing deep into his flesh. The sting of absinthe. The endless questions. Who _is Nightwing? Who wore this leather fetish get-up before you?_

“Dick Grayson.”

“That’s my name.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

***

Six hours. Six hours trapped in a room with what was either a shape-shifter, a very good robot replica, or one very disturbed Dick Grayson.

Never before had six hours in the exercise room seemed so long. Usually, they flew by in a flash. Fifteen minutes of exercise. Forty-five minutes of whatever definitely-must-see pop culture trivia Tim and Barb had loaded onto his laptop, against the backdrop of Dick’s voice reading from the Neverending Story that really seemed to have no ending. It had been a simple routine. Simple, yet pleasant.

This time, there had been no reading. He had sat in silence, trying and failing miserably at keeping track of what was happening on screen – he’d probably have to re-watch all five episodes tomorrow unless he wanted to suffer continuity lockout of the worst degree – all the while stealing glances at a hauntingly silent bird who had had his feathers ruffled badly. Whatever had happened to Dick, it was _bad_. He’d have to ask Barbara later. Perhaps she had known more than she had let on.

Six hours had finally come to an end to the sound of Dick’s phone ringing brightly and nearly getting flung against the nearest wall. Normally, Dick would have walked over to him, telling him to stop exercising and get back in the elevator, and not moving from his side until he was right in front of the damn thing.

This time, he got up slowly, stowed his book in his locker and headed for the elevator without so much as turning his head.

“Go to bed, Jason. And please don’t make me come down here and get you.”

The door closed quietly behind him. In the bright, fluorescent light of the basement, he could even see the cables move as the lift ascended. He counted to one-hundred, plowing through one last set of dumbbell exercises as he went along, before moving over to the locker and retrieving one of his lock picks from where he had sewn it into the wrapped fabric protecting the elastic end of his hoodie’s sleeve. If Dick thought a simple padlock would keep him out of this locker, he was in for a disappointment. It took him all of three seconds to get into the locker and another four to find and retrieve the book. The sight made his gut freeze over.

Warning sign number he-had-fucking-lost-count: this was not Michael Ende’s _Neverending Story_ – it was Howard Pyle’s _Merry Adventures of_ _Robin Hood_.

Now that he saw it up close, he could see that the pages of the book were worn and starting to yellow. On the inside of the cover, underneath the initials MG, the name Dick Grayson stood out in large and crude letters, much less refined than Dick’s handwriting should be. Wide curves, clumsy connections... a fourth-grader could have done a better job at it. He leafed through the pages quickly, expecting nothing in particular, only to find the margins littered with little symbols and annotations in much, much more elegant penmanship. Finer lines. Carefully dotted Is. Lots of curves and bows. A woman’s handwriting.

_His favorite part!_

_Extra emphasis!_

_Too scary! Tone down!_

_tangents_

_time for bed_

The realization hit him like a bucket of ice water. A woman’s handwriting in an old book for children that had belonged to Dick. MG.

Mary Grayson.

_But why the hell would he—_

_‘I would not count on him to make any rational decisions today’_ , Alfred had said. Today... As he reached for his phone and brought up the calendar, whatever warmth had been left in his gut drained right the fuck out. _January 20 th_.

“Fuck, fuck, FUCK!”

It took him every ounce of control he had not to throw the stupid book into the nearby trash can.

He had completely forgotten, but Dick probably hadn’t expected any better of him anyway. But Bruce? Had Bruce remembered? Had he realized that he had just picked about the worst possible day to give one of his precious sermons? Jason doubted it. He put the book back into the locker and reattached the padlock, then headed for the elevator himself.

Dick wasn’t in Jason’s temporary bedroom, and that in and off itself was yet another warning sign. There had been too fucking many. He should have noticed it sooner. Like, at least six hours ago. He tried Dick’s room next, but thanks to the thick curtains, the little cave of blue and silver was lying dark and lifeless, despite the sun having climbed high up into the sky. All around him, Mary and John Grayson smiled at him from the posters advertising Haly’s Circus. _Fearless Acrobats! Terrifying Heights!_

 _Dead Parents!_ The grating laughter started in the back of his skull and he bit his lip hard to keep it there. _Not now_.

He checked the guest rooms next, then the library with its comfy armchairs and couches, then the drawing room on the second floor and the living room with the big fireplace and the two curled up cats by the terrace. He wasn’t surprised that Dick wasn’t there. That didn’t mean he had to like it. By the time he was in front of the last room, at least half his brain was convinced that this was a terrible idea.

The room was all red of course. He knew that much even if he had only seen it on a night during a power outage so far. Some sick, masochistic part of him had to give Timbers and Barb credit – they had managed to replicate it near perfectly. The bed with the crimson sheets and double comforter had been moved out of the usual free-standing position all beds in the manor were usually in, with one side along the wall rather than the headboard. The desk was to the left of the window, not the right. The plasterwork had been painted Venetian red, with window curtains and a thick, plushy carpet to match. It was warm, at least two degrees warmer than the rest of the house, and that too was painfully familiar. However, even that paled in comparison to the very new and very unfamiliar addition to the room.

The curtains were drawn back, flooding the room with sunlight reflected by the heavy snow outside. In the strange brightness and against the coal black hair, Dick’s face was pale enough to make snow go ‘damn that’s white’. He could see the slightly reddish spot just below the left eye where a bruise would be forming soon, as well as the thin red line where something – or someone – had split open Dick’s bottom lip. Under the sheets, his feet were kicking restlessly, while his arms were stretched out to the other side of the bed, reaching, reaching as far as they could.

But it would not be enough. It would never be far enough because it hadn’t been far enough then, and there was no way to turn back time.

“Dick!” He decided to go for the half-exposed shoulder. If Dick’s reaction to waking up from nightmares would be anything like his own, he wanted to have a chance to get away at least. “Dick!” He pushed a little harder, but the reaching continued. With a frustrated sigh, Jason reached for the trapezius muscle. This was going to hurt. “Dick, wake the fuck up already!”

He pinched hard and the whine he got in return barely sounded human. He withdrew his hand quickly and put it back on the wheel of his chair, ready to make for a quick retreat if he had to.

“Where...” Dick’s voice sounded like he had gargled glass.

“In the fucking manor, you idiot. Next time, don’t just wait until I figure out what the fuck is wrong. Just go ahead and tell me!” He watched Dick freeze under the comforters, then curl in on himself as he rolled over. There was fatigue in his eyes. Fatigue, grief, pain and... well, he wasn’t quite sure whether that was hope or curiosity, but he was just going to have to take his chances. “Rise and shine, Goldie. Someone needs to knock some fucking sense into you.”

“Jason?”

“No, I’m the Easter bunny. I got here three months early.” Jason rolled his eyes. Definitely hope. “D’you want an invitation or som—“

Wherever he had been planning to take that sentence suddenly became irrelevant as Dick bolted upright in an instant. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, given that all of them had been trained to sharpen their reflexes to utmost perfection and Dick had usually been the speedster among them, but somehow he still didn’t have time to react, before two arms wrapped around him in that typical, inescapable Grayson hug fashion that would have put an octopus to shame. Dick’s cheek was like a furnace against his neck.

“I saw them falling again, Jason...”

“I know.” What else was there to say? They all had their nightmares, and Dick’s usually involved people dying. Falling.

“I saw them falling over and over and over again and no matter how fast I am, I just can’t reach them. I just can’t.”

“You _couldn’t_.” Jason corrected. “That was the past, Dickie. You were only fourteen. You had no way of knowing. It wasn’t your fault.”

The sound that escaped Dick’s throat was somewhere between a sob and a chuckle. “You’d think it would get easier after eleven fucking years, but it still hurts, Jay. It still hurts...”

“I know.” Six years ago, that would have been a lie. Six years ago, he had not yet learned what it meant to truly lose something you held so precious, something you _loved_. But he knew now. “But you’ve gotten through it for eleven years already, so don’t you dare throw in the towel now.”

This time, it was definitely more of a chuckle than a sob. The arms around his shoulders shifted, loosening the embrace but not quite letting go yet. Under the teary blue of his eyes, Dick’s lips curved into a small smile.

“Jaybird.”

“You know I always hated that nickname.”

“I’m really, really glad _you’re_ still alive.”


	22. No Rest For The Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life had always been a mangy bitch ready to bite him in the ass, but eventually, everyone bites back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy exploding inbox, Batman! Big thanks to everyone who's read/reviewed/kudoed/commented so far. You are all amazing, wonderful people.
> 
> Quick links for the interested:  
> My tumblr: http://lananiscorner.tumblr.com/  
> First annual Batfam Week with focus on Gen batfam content: https://batfamweek.tumblr.com/  
> FIY, I will also be writing for the event and taking Arkhamverse prompts for that week :)

Some things were just fact, sheer unshakeable truths of life that could not be argued. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. Night follows day and day follows night. Water is wet. Fire is hot.

And Dick Grayson was a fucking drama queen.

The noise that escaped through his clenched teeth as Dick tried to toss and turn once more was halfway between a hiss and a sigh. The cat that lay between Dick’s chin and his outstretched arms mimicked the sound perfectly, swished her tail across his face in annoyance and rolled back into her ridiculous imitation of Dick’s own ‘oh the humanity!’ sleeping pose as if nothing had happened.

“Good kitty.”

When exactly the cat had entered the room, Jason did not know. Maybe after the first time Dick had woken up from his nightmares, gone human octopus on Jason, and then gone back to sleep, giving him the chance to head for his own temporary bed room and grab his laptop. Maybe it had been after the second time, when Dick had woken up only an hour later thanks to another nightmare and had tried to pretend that two hours of sleep were enough. _Bullshit_. Jason had agreed with him, then headed for the kitchen and returned with a quick snack and two glasses of spiked almond-cocoa milk shakes. He had kept the one with the caffeine for himself and handed the one with the mild sedative over to Dick. Nightwing was still going to go on patrol tonight. Two hours of sleep were very definitely _not_ enough.

What he _did_ know was that the elder one of Tim and Barb’s cats had jumped on the bed just after the clock had struck three and had promptly sprawled out next to him, pawing him in the face each time he so much as tried to roll over, as if to tell him off for ruining the precious double pose thing they had going on. Strangely enough, it seemed to be working.

 _A diva for a diva_. His right hand ached as he wrote the words in tiny capital letters on the bottom left corner of the page. He wasn’t entirely sure what had possessed him to grab the sketch pad Alfred had given him for their late Christmas from his room and start drawing. Perhaps it was the near perfection of the double pose, perhaps the fact that the Persian tabby mix had fur that just dared him to replicate it on paper. Either way, he had started sketching. Now, almost three hours later, his formerly broken fingers screamed bloody murder and he shook out his hand to relieve what was threatening to become a nasty cramp if he didn’t stop drawing soon.

“Need a break?” His hands snapped to the wheels of his chair just as quickly as his head turned towards the door. Tim, not yet geared up but clearly more awake than everyone else in the room, grinned at him from the entrance. “Also, unless you’re going for the sunset mood lighting, might I suggest you switch on the light?”

“Don’t bother.” He flipped the sketch book shut again and slipped the pencil back into the little clasp at its top edge. “I was done anyway. What are you doing up and about? Did the chicken soup finally work?”

Tim bristled, the smile slipping off his face in an instant. “Yes. And I’m pretty sure it would have done the job just fine even without the black cumin, thank you very much.”

“I can make it an extra dose of habanero pepper next time, if you want.”

Tim shook his head, then flicked on the light. “Jason... normally I would say you are an ass.”

“I sense a ‘but’ here. No pun intended.”

“ _But_ if you were, I’m sure you wouldn’t be here now.” With quick strides, Tim walked over to the desk by the window and brought its chair next to the bed. His brow knitted into a slight frown as he sat down and mustered their older brother from head to toe. “I’m sorry none of us noticed, Jason. Barb’s been so busy, what with all the crap going on since New Year’s and the remodeling of Gotham U’s library database, and I’ve been so knocked out on meds thanks to this stupid cold... It’s no excuse though. We should have realized that this day was coming up and you shouldn’t have had to deal with it all by yourself. I’m sorry about that, but I’m really grateful that you were here for him, Jason.”

“Well...” He shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing that a glass of chocolate shake with sedatives couldn’t fix.”

“You didn’t!”

“Just enough to knock him out for three hours,” Jason argued. “Don’t pretend you’ve never considered it.”

Whatever reply Tim had wanted to give him was cut off by the sudden ringing of Dick’s phone. Of course he still had that stupid, annoying standard ringtone turned up to eleven as his alarm clock. Jason rolled his eyes as he reached for the phone, ready to dismantle the damn thing into its tiniest parts if necessary. Underneath the sheets, Dick grumbled in annoyance.

“Just five more minutes—”

“Sorry, Dick. Not going to happen.” Tim pulled the sheets back quickly, sending the cat running from the room hissing and growling while Dick curled in on himself, stretching and winding as if the mere suggestion that he would have to get up now was causing him physical pain. “We all know that ‘five more minutes’ in your case usually ends up being an hour and Jason’s already been awake a full twenty-four just to watch over you. Do not make me get a bucket of water.”

“Seriously, Tim, just five—“ All of a sudden, the twisting underneath the sheets stopped. Dick’s eyes went from sleep-dazed to sort-of-aware slowly as they zoomed in on the two figures in front of him. “Jaybird?”

Jason frowned. “I already told you, I hate that nickname.”

This time, he was ready for it. He caught the signs just in time – the way Dick’s eyes suddenly went wide and his shoulders flattened out but his back arched up, his limbs tucked in and ready to pounce. Perhaps the cat had not just imitated _him_. Perhaps it was a mutual thing. With a quick push against the wheels, Jason sent his chair rolling backwards, leaving Dick to hug nothing but air and scrambling to turn the sudden pull of gravity into a semi-graceful half-flip/half-roll that ended with him sprawled out on his back on the carpet. The quick whine of what was most likely over-done dramatic agony drew a sharp laugh from Tim.

“So much for putting the ‘grace’ in ‘Grayson’!”

“I hate you both!” The grin that stretched across Dick’s face as he propped himself up on his arms proved that he didn’t really mean it. In the half-light of the setting sun, the darkening bruise on his face slowly started melting into the shadows. “Though I guess I deserved that.” And just like that the smirk was gone. Jason could see the uncomfortable, so not-Grayson-like degree of seriousness in the frown that followed and instantly felt his gut curl in response. This was going to get ugly. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier, Jason. You know, before I left the gym.”

_Why do you flinch every time you hear the sound of a drill?_

The small, circular scars on his feet and calves came to life immediately, itching like a thousand ants under his skin. For the first time since he had woken up in the manor just after Christmas, Jason was happy to have the casts. Now he could just chalk it up to the plaster. “It’s nothing. Forget about it.”

To his right, Tim’s eyes narrowed in mild annoyance. “What exactly did you do, Dick?”

“I said forget about it,” Jason insisted. They were not going to have—

“Jason, if you don’t want to talk about it, feel free to leave the room and go get some sleep.” Tim was pissed. It would have been hard to tell for any outsider, given that his voice was still as calm and leveled as it normally was, but Jason had learned to identify the clues. For starters, Tim did not usually interrupt people unless something was seriously wrong. “But _I_ am sick and tired of people in this family not talking to each other, _Dick_ clearly wants to get this off his chest, and judging from _your_ reaction _you_ really shouldn’t want to risk having that same conversation more than once. So...” There was not a single ounce of aggression or disdain in Tim’s voice as he looked at Dick again and it left Jason nothing but bewildered. How could someone be so angry without getting the slightest bit worked up? “What exactly happened before you curled up here?”

“Jason asked me why I was acting so strange and I wanted to avoid the question.” For what it was worth, Dick did his best imitation of Tim’s own calmness as he sat up and cross his legs in front of himself. Even in a serious conversation, Dick Grayson still had to entangle his limbs in ways that would have made normal people wince. The quick look Dick shot him was nothing but apologetic. “If you wanna leave, now’s your chance.”

 _If you want to leave. If you want to run. If you want to tuck in your tail like a bloody coward_. Jason snorted at the idea. He was tired of running. “Dick asked why I flinch every time I hear a drill. I guess _someone_ was stalking me around the house when the repair guys were here to fix all the New Year’s damage.” To his credit, Tim did his best not to react visibly to those news, although Jason could see the way the muscles in his chest and shoulders flinched just a tiny bit. Dick on the other hand was not even trying to hide his horrified expression. “And for the record: I answered your question, too.”

“Uhm...” The confusion was clear in Dick’s voice. “Maybe my brain’s still a little sleep-scrambled, but if I recall correctly, you merely said my name.”

“It probably makes perfect sense to you, Jason,” Tim said with what could only be described as his best attempt at diplomacy in a mental war zone. “But I think Dick and I, we’re missing a few steps here to understand how you got from that question to that answer. We can’t read your mind, after all.”

“Good. The last thing I need is you two inside my fucking brain.”

“Jason—“

“Remember August 16th?”

 _What the hell do you think you’re doing?_ He could practically hear part of himself scream at whatever had possessed him to open his mouth. _Abort mission. Get the fuck out!_ It would be the safest course of action. Dick wouldn’t hold it against him. Neither would Tim. They had already offered him that choice. He could do it. He should do it.

“Remember what I told you about the scars on my palms?”

So why the hell was he still talking? _Why? Why? Why? WHY?_ It made no sense, none at all. He glanced back and forth between his frozen hands and feet automatically. _Just shut up, already! Close your mouth, get out of here and—_

“Oh God...” Dick’s fingers slid across the cast carefully, edging forward inch by inch. He was faintly aware that Tim was eyeing both of them like a mother hen waiting for two of her little chickens to pick a fight, but the information barely registered. “Those—He took a drill to your feet?!”

_Ding dong! Five-hundred points for the idiot with the horrible fashion sense and the even more atrocious tendency to hug and glomp everything and everyone within a five-foot radius!_

“Feel free to let me tag along next time you had down to Home Depot,” Jason lobbed back at him. “You’d be amazed what you can do with a standard DIY tool box if you get a little creative.”

At last, his hands finally decided to move again. He brought them to the wheels quickly, steering backwards and sharply to the left just like Barb had taught him. He was half-expecting her to be waiting in the still open door, but the only thing that greeted him was the emptiness of the manor’s ridiculously wide halls. The slightly cooler air outside the room hit him like a bucket of ice, but it also felt strangely good. Cold, but also grounding, and somehow a thousand times lighter than the suffocating atmosphere in the room he had just fled from. To his right, his own temporary room – formerly Tim’s – was almost begging him to come over and finally get some rest, but the mere idea of locking himself up in a box – even one as generously sized as the bedrooms of the manor – sent his stomach turning. He needed to get out of here. Away from this hallway. Away from this room. Away from _them_.

Behind his back, the quick, tell-tale patter of Dick scrambling to his feet was followed almost instantly by a loud thump and an angry hiss that sounded remotely like Tim. It was his cue to move. No good could come of him staying here and he was already at a disadvantage. The sooner he left, the better. He needed to get out of here. Out of this hall. Out of this house.

He was already by the door, eyeing the coats on the rack next to it when his brain finally pointed out the crucial flaw in this ingenious escape plan: ‘out’ meant straight into a snow storm. With no winter coat, no boots and no scarf. Hello pneumonia. He wanted to kick the stupid coat rack. Of course, he couldn’t. He was stuck in here. Stuck in a stupid wheel chair, with two broken feet, and with nothing for defense other than a notepad and a pencil.

Then again, the things you could do with a pencil...

“Fancying a stroll through the blizzard, Master Todd?”

He turned around slowly, only to find Alfred waiting for him with a silver tray grasped firmly in both hands, his face as comfortingly blank as always. Judging from the slightest sliver of steam that rose from the kettle on the tray, there was fresh tea waiting in the four cups. He didn’t need to guess hard to know that two of them were green, one black and one red.

“Fancying just getting the f—just getting out of here.” Somehow he had managed to swallow both the lump in his throat and the insult. His eyes were on the upper floor, carefully watching for any sign of being followed, but his mind was everywhere and nowhere at once. Still he couldn’t lie to Alfred. Even if he tried, it would have been a fruitless endeavor. “I want out of this house, Alfred. I want fresh air and open skies. Is that too much to ask?”

“No, Master Todd.” There was a slight clank as Alfred set the tray down on the window sill next to the door. The coat he picked off the rack was long, black and looked like something straight out of The Godfather. He remembered it from last January.

“That’s Dick’s coat.”

“I can assure you, Master Grayson is not going to need it tonight,” Alfred argued as he stepped next to him and helped him slip his arms through the sleeves. Bracing up on the armrests to allow Alfred to slip the coat’s skirt underneath him made his right hand hurt and his left flank protest in pain, but he couldn’t have cared less as long as it meant that he was getting out of here. The warmth that spread underneath the fabric the moment he buttoned it up was almost ridiculous and only intensified once Alfred put a deep blue scarf around his neck and what felt like the warmest hat in the history of winter attire on his head. They had played this game before, back during his first winter at the manor when he had nearly run out into the snow in nothing but a light jacket and his sneakers, much to both Alfred’s and Bruce’s horror. Back then, the concept of proper winter clothing had been on the same level as shiny golden unicorns for him. Now, just like back then, Alfred stepped back and mustered him carefully, before reaching for his own coat. “Much better. Now, where do you wish to go, Master Todd?”

 _Where..._ The word bounced uselessly around his skull. Where could he go, really? There were about twenty inches of snow outside and he was stuck in a wheelchair. Even whatever little trench Tim had dug to let Alfred get from the car to the door was certainly covered in snow again once more. Which left only one option.

“Does the manor still have that little gazebo in the rose garden? Is it even still a rose garden? I mean, it’s winter and I haven’t gotten a close enough look at it yet to know for sure.”

“Indeed it is, sir,” Alfred replied with his lips pressed into a thin line. “I do know that Master Drake had a rose garden planted, although judging from what I have seen of it, I weep to think of the poor plants inside.”

Somehow, that actually managed to make the corners of his mouth twitch and he slipped the notepad underneath his coat before buttoning up once more. “Then let’s see if the architecture’s still the same and just how badly he’s screwed up the rose beds.”

The answers turned out to be ‘yes’ and ‘very’. The gazebo was still there, looming in the darkness of the gardens at night like a cage made of bones. The bitter, freezing cold that had hit him in the face the moment they had left the house did not make it better, but Jason clenched his teeth together as he followed Alfred through the snow carefully. Maneuvering through the tiny aisle scraped out by Alfie was a challenge, but then again, what in his life hadn’t been? At the very least, Alfred’s mildly frustrated mutterings about the state of the garden provided a nice counter to the persistently hounding laughter in the back of his head. If he wasn’t entirely mistaken he had heard the words ‘thoughtless arrangement’, ‘uninspired selection’ and ‘sorry excuse for winter preparations’ somewhere in there, and either Barb or Tim was in for a lecture in the morning.

The gazebo itself was thankfully mostly free of snow and it took Alfred little less than a minute to clear out a quick path to the dome-protected center of the structure. Through the flurry of white outside the gilded, waist-high walls, the lights of the manor looked distant and blurry, providing barely enough light to see the path they had taken.

It all looked so familiar.

“You know, I used to come here a lot,” Jason mused, as if the man sitting in front of him on one of the marble benches had not been around for his time in the original manor. “I used to take my books and papers out here to do my homework whenever the weather allowed.”

That elicited a sound from Alfred that almost bordered on a cough. “‘Whenever the weather allowed’? Master Todd, I distinctly remember driving Master Bruce home from a business meeting at Wayne Tower one September afternoon, only to find you out here in the middle of a thunderstorm.”

“I had been cooped up inside listening to Mrs. Harold’s extra-boring history lectures for three hours straight, Alfie! I needed a break.” And if a break had found him sitting in the tiny little spot right in the middle of the gazebo that was still reasonable dry while the rest of the world around him was drowning in a downpour of rain and hail, then so be it. Bruce had been pissed of course, ranting on and on about irresponsible behavior and pneumonia and hypothermia while he had dragged him back to the house. Jason had merely shrugged. He had come to appreciate Gotham’s rain a long time ago. It had been the closest thing to a shower he had seen for more than five years of his life.

From the distant manor, the familiar sound of a starting engine reached his ear, followed by the roar of Nightwing’s motorcycle. With any luck, he had taken Robin with him and Jason now had at least eight hours to figure out how he was going to shoot down the five-thousand questions that were surely waiting for him once they came back.

He wasn’t sure exactly how long he had been sitting there by the time Alfred got up to light one of the ornate lanterns hanging in the eight corners of the pavilion, but there was no mistaking the sound of high-pitched screeching and rapid flapping of wings as the place lit up. Most of the bats scattered into the night immediately, no doubt looking for a darker shelter from the storm, but two of them remained hanging almost perfectly still just above the entrance to the gazebo.

“Well, look who forgot how to hibernate! You would have thought they would all have left after the cave collapsed...”

Alfred smiled at that. “Those caves go deeper than any of us might ever know, Master Todd, and bats tend to be hardy creatures. I should know. I practically raised four of them. Maybe these two just don’t want to give up their home for something as trivial as a little flame.”

“Babs and Tim then.” When Alfred looked at him in confusion, Jason merely shrugged his shoulders. “What? I mean the place did burn down and those two are crazy enough to stay here, still. Seems appropriate.”

That made Alfred chuckle just a little. The bats did not care. He watched them shake out their wings quickly before tucking them back around their small bodies to keep out the cold.

“I have a request, Master Todd, if I may be so bold.”

“Anytime, Alfie.”

“Would you mind drawing them for me?” Jason raised an eyebrow, only to be met by a quick nod from Alfred. “I could not help but notice that you brought your sketch pad. It would be a shame to have it here for nothing, and I would very much appreciate watching you draw, if you do not mind.”

“Alfie...” He ditched the thin gloves he had retrieved from the coat’s pockets and cracked his knuckles. “If I’m dragging you out here in the middle of a cold-ass winter night, the _least_ I can do is draw something for you.”

Of course, he had once more shot off his mouth without properly thinking about the implications first. Alfred had urged him to put on the gloves once more. Jason had argued that the fabric interfered with his dexterity and the quality of the work. In addition, ‘Tim’ and ‘Babs’ had been perfect models of stillness right up until he had started to get to the nitty-gritty details – the texture of the fur, the tiny little ears, the soft shadows against the gazebo’s roof. _Then_ they had decided to twitch and scuttle about until he finally gave up on a one-hundred percent accurate depiction. The final straw had been ‘Tim’ prematurely fluttering off into the night to the sound of Spanish cursing, leaving the picture about eighty-five percent finished.

Bruce would have called it incomplete and unrefined and told him to re-do it. Alfred clearly held no such thoughts. He wriggled out of his own gloves and took the paper with a tenderness and a certain kind of... _reverence_ that bordered on the unreal.

“Sterling work, Master Todd! Thank you very much. Now, how about we return inside so I can reward you with a hot dinner?”

 _Inside..._ Jason let that word simmer in his brain for a minute. Upside: warm, dry, windless, food— _Alfred’s food_. Downside: walls and the promise of more questions to come later that night. _Unless you are already asleep by then_ , not-Robin pointed out, and suddenly it was as if all the exhaustion, all the fatigue of the last hours had finally caught up to him. How long had he been awake now? It had been a full day when Tim had joined in. How long ago was that now? An hour? Maybe two?

With the fatigue came the cold, and despite the warmth of the coat, scarf and hat, Jason could feel a shiver run down his spine and through his bones. His fingers felt like popsicles, even though he had periodically taken breaks during his sketching session, put on the gloves again and tucked his hands between his arms and ribs to boot. His breath came out in white plumes of condensed breath, instantly triggering the nagging urge for a hit of nicotine that he had somehow been able to avoid for the last couple of days. To his left, Alfred sat, quiet and unmoving as a rock, but the signs were there, too – the slight trembling of his lips, the minute furrowing of his brow.

He hated to admit it, but... “Yeah. Hot dinner actually sounds kind of nice.”

That was all the confirmation Alfred needed. He rolled up the picture and stored it carefully in an inside pocket of his coat, then set out to once more breach a path between the gazebo and the house. Halfway along the line, the weather apparently decided to reinforce their decision to leave, cranking up the wind and covering up their tracks as if to make sure that there was no way back. By contrast, the warmth of the manor’s main hall hit him like a brick wall and sent his fingers and face itching and tingling with a hundred pins and needles. By the time he had finished twisting out of the coat sleeves, Alfred was already waiting for him, and while getting the coat out from under him was easier than the other way around, his frozen muscles still protested at the effort.

“If you please, Master Todd, it will take me a while to prepare your meal. Feel free to freshen up and take a short rest. I shall call you as soon as dinner is ready.”

Of course, ‘feel free to do X’ was really Alfred’s way of saying ‘do it or I will find a way to make you’. There was no point in arguing with the true master of the manor. With a quick sigh, Jason headed for the lift to take him upstairs.

The door to the red room – he still couldn’t think of it as _his_ room – was closed once more, while the door to Dick’s bed room was wide open. A quick glance inside confirmed that Dick had left in a hurry, barely taking enough time to switch into his costume before bolting out the door with his civvies still strewn across the floor. Alfred would berate him for leaving behind such a mess once he got back from patrol. Bruce would have chewed him out for storing his suit in a place as blatantly unsafe, easily accessible and utterly mundane as his own room. He made a mental note to go in there next time Dick was asleep and see if there was a hidden compartment to the closet at least, or if he had simply kept the costume stuffed into a random drawer. Apparently, field name protocols had not been the only thing that had suffered quality decay since Batman’s ‘death’.

“Fifteen months later and I’m still cleaning up your fucking mess... Go to hell, Bruce.”

He had barely closed the door to his temporary accommodations behind himself, much less taken a look at the bathroom door when he noticed that something was wrong.

For starters, the laptop was back on the bedside drawer, same as the nearly finished copy of _The Neverending Story_. Secondly, someone who was definitely not Alfred had taken the time to straighten out his bed sheets, leaving the room as neat and tidy as it would have been, had he been able to actually _walk_ and get shit done. He did a quick circle through the room, double-checking the windows along the way, to get rid of the paranoia that was slowly growing in his gut, then headed for the bathroom at last.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me!”

The note really shouldn’t have stuck out like a sore thumb, given that is was just as white as the sink below it and the mirror cabinet it was leaning against, but he had spent enough time in this room to know every inch of it by memory. This piece of paper was new, and he wouldn’t even need three guesses to figure out who it was from, much less what the contents were.

 _Tim and Dick. A very long, pleading apology for setting off another one of his triggers, this time deliberately no less_.

“I need to get out of this fucking place.”

Of course, tearing the thing in half and chucking it in the bin did practically nothing to ease the fury that was bubbling up inside him at the thought. He was tired of all of this. Tired of the guilt trips, tired of the questions that came with them. Tired of being stuck in here. The sheer impracticality and inconvenience of things as simple as trying to maintain a basic level of personal hygiene while stuck in a wheelchair with a cast and a large patch of gauze that were very definitely supposed to stay dry at all times did not help and soon enough the soap ended up in the garbage, too, followed by a quick punch to the metal container that made his ribs cry out, while doing little to actually calm him down. He wanted to punch _someone_ , not _something_.

_Don’t do—_

He didn’t bother to give not-Robin the time to reply to that. Instead, his fist – still wrapped in the towel he had been using to dry himself off with – ended up in the mirror, shattering the mocking reflection into enough pieces to match the ugly scars. He was tired of seeing this battered, bruised and broken body every time he came in here. Just so fucking tired...

Suddenly, the towel felt as if it were made of lead. The fingers of his right hand ached at the unfamiliar sensation and he ditched the towel quickly to inspect the damage. None of the shards had cut him, but his fingers still screamed bloody murder. He could only hope that he hadn’t broken the bones again. Barb, Tim and Dick would never let him hear the end of it. Even worse, he’d have to deal with Alfred re-applying the cast, quietly and stoically disapproving of the lack of disregard his charges so often showed for their personal health.

And of course, if you spoke of the devil, he was going to come and get you.

“Master Todd?” The knocking was a formality, a courtesy really. If there had been a lock on the door to the bathroom before New Year’s Day, then the key had definitely been removed right after his stunt with the medication bottle he had broken. The line was still clearly visible, just between his eye and the scar and it felt fresh and new again right now. “Master Todd, are you alright? I heard glass shatter.”

“Broke some more glass.” _Maybe we should start keeping a tally_. The idea made him want to laugh and gag at the same time. He probably should. Then all Tim would have to do at the end of his enforced family vacation would be to hand him the bill. It wouldn’t be the first time he would be paying for his fucking PTSD out of his dear, not-so-departed ‘father’s’ pocket. “I’ll be fine, Alfie. Don’t worry about me.”

“Very well, Master Todd. Dinner shall be ready in about ten minutes.” Perhaps there really was a god. He sat quiet and unmoving as a stone as he listened for the tell-tale sound of Alfred’s quiet steps and then the heavy oaken door to the hallway opening and closing again. Alfred didn’t need to see the mess that was this room. Or him for that matter. Not now. Not for the next ten minutes at least. With new-found determination, Jason reached for the trash can and the towel and started shoving the shattered glass out of the sink and into the bag. White, not black. Another change that had come with the new year. Perhaps he had rambled about it in his sleep at some point. Perhaps one of his hyper-aware caretakers had noticed how he had very deliberately avoided staring at any of the black bags for more than a second. Either way, this one was white and he was grateful for it.

He was halfway done cleaning up the battlefield of glass when the weight of the shards tipped over the torn note just enough to let him read a couple of letters.

_Than—_

Exactly how many words were there in the English language that started with those four letters? More importantly, how come he could only think of two of them right now and neither one made sense?

The hand-writing was too neat to be Dick’s by far, even despite the sorry, crumpled state of the paper. Digging for the remaining pieces without cutting up his hands was a pain in the ass, but then again, so was disarming complicated bombs. He could do this. Once he was sure he had gotten all pieces, Jason set them aside on the water tank of the toilet and replaced them with the rest of the glass and what was left of the towel. With the garbage bin closed and pushed into its usual place once more, the bathroom looked almost as if nothing had ever happened. On the white paper, the dark blue letters in what looked very much like proper fountain pen ink stood out in surreal clarity.

_Thank you for telling us, Jason, and don’t worry about not sticking around to wait for our reactions._

_P.S.: If you end up breaking some more furniture, don’t worry about that either. Barb’s planning to send all the bills to Bruce._

_It’s not your fault._

Underneath the fine blue lines, another sentence had been scribbled hastily in ballpoint pen ink and Jason frowned at the sight. Dick’s handwriting had always been a fucking disaster. Clearly, being under time pressure had not improved the situation.

_P.P.S.: I’m not letting you anywhere near a toolbox ever again._

“Richard John Grayson, you’re a fucking moron. I might just punch you when you get back here.”

He left the note on the trash can and slipped back into his hoodie as quickly as he could, then left for his room once more. He’d have time to ponder his preferred degree of punishment for his over-protective older sibling later. Right now, his ten minutes were almost certainly up and as much as Alfred liked to cater to the manor’s residents straight up into ‘free room service’ territory, Barb had insisted on having lunch in the control room, if only to get Jason used to steering his wheelchair through every single floor of the manor. The fact that lunch would be dinner for him tonight and his eyelids were already feeling like lead was no excuse to him and would certainly be no excuse to Barb.

***

His first clue that something was wrong was when he entered the control room and saw Alfred sitting by Oracle’s side, rather than standing behind her, tray in hand.

His second clue was that the tray had been set aside on one of the nearby shelves with all the tea cups, smoothie glasses, a covered bowl of what looked like another one of Alfred’s delicious soups, and the sandwich plate still untouched.

His third clue was the deep scowl on Oracle’s face as she typed away furiously.

“I am doing what I can, Ghost, but there’s only two of us here and the three of you in the field.” Which meant that Nightwing had been called back to Gotham as well. Things were definitely very, _very_ wrong. “It is going to take a couple of minutes.”

“These people don’t have a couple of minutes, Oracle.” _Well_ , he could practically hear the Knight’s voice echo off the bones of his skull _, at the very least he’s still an impatient, ungrateful bastard. Good to know some things are still in order._ “We need the CCTV footage for all remaining seven crime scenes and the trails leading away from them, or these people will die.”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘please’.”

For a moment, it was as if his voice had been a high-powered laser, cutting straight through the chatter and the momentum, as Oracle’s typing ground to an instant halt and the comms lines went silent. A second later, Batgirl’s reflexes kicked in once more and Barb hit the mute button. “Jason, are you insane?”

“You only just noticed that now, huh?” This was going to hurt, but if it was bad enough to bring Nightwing over from Blüdhaven and have Oracle and Alfred both run support simultaneously... “Don’t tell me you don’t need another set of hands. Just bring me up to speed and let’s get to work.”

“Jason—“

“Field names, Oracle.” He settled in at the monitor and keyboard to her left, but the only thing he got when trying to access the case file was an ‘Access Denied’ message. This was not the time and place for kidding around. Not in Gotham, the city where evil never slept. Which meant there was really only one reason why he had been locked out and the thought made him feel ready to throw up. “Sitrep?”

“Master Bruce received an email to his corporate account just fourteen minutes ago.” Somehow, Alfred still managed to sound as if things were not going to hell and the familiar calm loosened the painful knot that his stomach had turned into just a little. “Said email contained a list of eleven Wayne Enterprises employees who have been kidnapped from their homes by the sender, taken to undisclosed locations and locked in air tight cells to be filled with a deadly nerve gas by the end of the hour. Attached to the email was the link to a live stream video of an eleventh victim who was unfortunately used as a demonstration of the email’s veracity.”

 _One down. Ten to go. Eleven total._ He mulled the thought over in his head. _Eleven people, specifically targeted for working at the company that financed and equipped Batman. Nerve gas._ “You know, normally I would ask just which kind of nerve gas we were talking about – the laughing variety or the frightening variety – but since the result’s going to be the same for everyone involved and we don’t have time for this, let’s just get to work.”

“You’re sure you want to do this Red?” Oracle sounded equal parts worried and frustrated. “We’re going to need open lines here. I can’t just lock Ghost out.”

“Oracle, your concern is admirable,” Jason took a deep breath. Yeah, this night was going to hurt. “But, one, I’ve spent the last six years drowning out Joker’s fucking laughter – I’m pretty sure I can drown out B for one night. Two, if not, I know where the door is. Three, there are ten people out there who only have another forty-two minutes to live. We ain’t got time to argue.”

“Your word in god’s ear...” He watched Barb mirror his own deep exhale, followed by another push of the ‘mute’ button. The comms came back online immediately.

“Robin here.” Tim’s voice was tinny and slightly static. “First employee found and secured. I’ve notified Cash to arrange a pick-up. Give me another name and address.”

“Eugene Sandford, 1448 Queen Street, Burnley.” He watched Barb bring up the list of the kidnapped men and women, crossing off the second name on the list and marking the sixth one red for Robin. “Heads-up for you guys and by ‘guys’ I mean ‘Ghost’: Red Hood is going to give us a hand with this. No comments, no prying, and if I find you hacking our systems again, I’ll make your life a living hell until the day you really, actually die. Red,” At last, the case files restrictions were lifted and the same list of names that had been on Barb’s screen appeared on his own. “Go ahead and take your pick.”

“I’ll start from the bottom and—“ His fingers froze above the keyboard. This was either some sick kind of joke or the universe was once more seeing it fit to kick him in the balls while he was down. “Last name on the list: Miranda García. _The_ Miranda García?”

“It’s not your fault, Red,” Robin interjected quickly over the sound of his grapnel gun firing. “Nine out of these ten people have never even met you. It’s not your fault.”

“Yeah, remind me of that again when she dies with a Cheshire grin on her face.” _Not going to happen_ , not-Robin insisted. This woman had jeopardized her entire career and risked getting sued into the next galaxy to fix his broken body. The last thing she deserved was to end up a slasher smile corpse. “Gimme her address, Oracle.”

The employee file appeared on his screen within a second. Private address in the Coventry. Of course. Of all the fucking places, it just had to have been the Coventry. By the time Nightwing’s voice came through the comms, he was already hacked into the local CCTV network.

“You know, Red, normally you’re supposed to ask for the girl’s number first.”

“You know, Goldie,” The apartment’s security mainframe was even more pitiful than the online security at BPD and Jason pinched his nose in frustration. “I am definitely going to punch you.”


	23. Desperate Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the list of "scenarios in which I might work together with Bruce", Jason's current predicament may be somewhere between "never" and "hell no", but there is still a job to do. And when Red Hood started a job, he finished it too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aka, the chapter that launched a thousand headcanons and - oh god - half of this is probably going to come back to bite me in the ass in later chapters when my continuity sense goes derp. Anyway, enjoy.  
> Thanks to everyone who's been reading/kudoing/commenting so far. You are all wonderful people! :)

Landlords, as far as Jason was concerned, were never exactly pleasant people to deal with. Yet somehow, he still ended up being stumped by the sheer incompetence and indifference that Gotham’s property-managing blood suckers managed to demonstrate on a daily basis.

Of the eight cameras between the apartment and the front door, five were completely shot. The remaining three provided a picture quality low enough to convince him that this system must have been installed before he had even been born. Probably hadn’t seen a day of maintenance ever since either. He bit back the string of curses that wanted to crawl off his tongue as he rewound the footage from the camera closest to the door. She had arrived home at half past six, probably straight home from work, if Wayne Plaza was on the same schedule as Wayne Tower, and had left not even half an hour later, dressed in a set of grey exercise clothes and a pair of good running shoes.

It was the last glimpse the apartment cameras had gotten of her.

“No luck?” Oracle glanced at his screen briefly, before returning to her own display to hand the results of her trace over to Ghost. This time, the address was on the mainland, close to Crest Hill. Apparently, Joker had really built his little gas chambers all over the city.

“Not yet.” He moved on to the closest CCTV camera, placed above the ATM on the other side of the street, instead, and started at half past six. “If we didn’t have her apartment number, identifying her through the video would have been downright impo—“

The angle the camera had given him was less than ideal and the fact that she had had to wear gray of all colors did not make it any better, but he caught it nonetheless. In the upper right hand corner of the screen, the clock read 19:58 when she entered the frame. Knowing what was about to happen, the signs were clearly visible, but he couldn’t blame her for simply walking by the group of four men smoking in front of the building.

The first one tried to grab her from behind by her left arm. She used his momentum to swing around and punch him in the throat instead. Jason watched in a mixture of amusement and surprise as she proceeded to wipe the floor with them.

“Someone’s been taking self-defense classes,” Oracle mused to his right.

“Krav Maga,” Jason specified as he watched the last thug getting his head smashed into a nearby mail collection box. Identifying different fighting styles was one of the first martial arts lessons Bruce had ever given to Robin, coupled with an explanation of why it was so essential to mix and match, rather than stick to just one. “And she must have been at it for a while. Those counter kicks were pretty clean.”

Unfortunately, even the best technique was no use against an ambush. She had been busy dialing a number on her phone – probably 911 – when some sneaky bastard with a baseball bat had struck her hard from behind, sending her down long enough for them to cuff her and drag her off into a nearby alley. As expected of Gotham’s upstanding citizenship, anyone else that could have helped had long since ducked into the relative safety of the nearest doors and Jason shook his head as he switched to the camera closest to the other side of the alley instead.

Naturally, as luck would have it, the get-away car was a completely bland, nondescript Toyota Camry. He followed the car as it sped off into the night, switching from one crappy camera to the next. He was starting to understand why Oracle always liked to call CCTV tracing the indoors version of grappling from rooftop to rooftop. His feet itched at the familiar sight of the scenery switching from corner to corner, cars rushing past underneath him, and they ached at the very unfamiliar lack of all the sensations that usually came with it: the feeling of Gotham’s harsh, cold rain pelting his jacket, the sharp cut of the wind, the noise of the road and the people, the glaring luminescence of Gotham’s ubiquitous neon lights, and the howl of sirens, sometimes distant, sometimes close by. Suddenly, the casts felt like shackles made of lead, dragging him down to the ground and keeping him there, like a bird with broken wings. To add insult to injury, the cameras just off Mainland Bridge were down, leaving him with all of Miagani Island as possible destinations for the car.

“You goddamn fu—umbling morons!” He cut the curse short by biting his lip at the sight of Alfred’s fleeting, but stern glare and took his frustration out on the keyboard instead. Unfortunately, that merely served to make his only recently recovered fingers tingle slightly in protest. What Mainland Bridge lacked in functioning cameras, Bristol had in cars that matched his target in grayscale just perfectly. He stole a quick glance at the clock integrated on the desktop – 20:27 – and winced at the realization that half the time was up for the six people whose locations they had not been able to pinpoint yet. Five, if he ignored the name Alfred was currently relaying to Robin, together with an address near McCallum Academy.

 _Focus, Jason_ , not-Robin admonished. _There’s still thirty-three minutes left. You can do this._

At least one half of that was true. He started at Pinkey’s orphanage, going clockwise from camera to camera, trying to find the Toyota he had been tracking once more. He was halfway between the gardens and the fire station when he finally caught sight of it again, sandwiched between too equally mundane cars in an equally drab color, but distinguishable by the slight swerving that – if he had to take a guess – probably had to do with the cargo more than the car. The last time he had been in a vehicle with an unwilling passenger, they had ended up ramming hood first into a granite-lined row of flowers. He could only hope that Miranda García wasn’t the Oracle brand of crazy that had people jumping out of a vehicle moving at fifty miles per hour. Then again, he had pulled the same stunt the first time GCPD had tried to take him in, back when he had been nine, so who was he to argue?

“I’m done here, Oracle.” Bruce’s voice was the same flat, demanding monotone it had always been and Jason rubbed his temples over a sip from a nearby water bottle as the sheer attitude of it started grating on his nerves once more. “Do you have another location?”

It took him all he had not to spit out his drink all over the keyboard. Judging from the slight smile on Barb’s face, she understood where he was coming from. He swallowed his voice with the water as he mouthed his questions to her silently. _Did he just ASK for another location? What the fuck have you guys done to him?_

 _Not us_ , Barbara whispered back at him so low that even her comms could not have picked it up. _Alfred._

If he had heard her, Alfred showed no sign of it. Instead, he merely reached for his nearby cup of tea as he sent another batch of data through the comms. “Oracle and Red Hood are still working on their traces. In the meantime, might I suggest you rescue Mr. Bill Kersey from his current predicament near Ryker Heights?”

“I’m on my way.”

The line cut out again and for a few seconds all he could do was stare at the screen in thinly veiled distrust, before his brain dragged him back to the matter at hand. He had a car to trace and a hostage to save.

The trail continued all the way through Miagani Island, past Mercy Bridge into the Cauldron and back out the other end. He had just traced it all the way to Merchant Bridge when Nightwing’s voice – still cheerful despite a noticeable strain to it, came through the comms.

“Done here. Bastard shipped poor Mr. Philips all the way to Arkham. Can you believe those plants are still trying to crush bones and eat people?”

“It’s Arkham,” Jason lobbed back at him. “I’d be surprised if they didn’t. After all, it’s where Gotham’s super-villains go to when they want a break from playing fetch with the big bad bat.” He could have sworn he felt Oracle freeze next to him and heard Robin facepalm through the comms. He would also have been willing to bet every last cent he owned that Bruce was currently scowling in stark disapproval, and the idea left a ridiculous, warm tingling in his stomach. “Are you still in the area?”

“Yes.” Dick sounded about two inches high and Jason almost wanted to curse himself for bringing it up again. Even someone as criminally perma-cheerful as Dick didn’t deserve to be kicked in the gut two days in the row.

“Don’t go too far then, because the car I’m tracing took a left after Merchant Bridge. With a little luck, I’ll have a fixed location in a minute.”

“Left after Merchant? There’s not much there between the bridge and the Northeast River.”

“Well, except for the Narrows, of course.” The groan that came in reply was to be expected and Jason could hardly blame him. The Narrows were a maze, a big cube with unfinished, DIY steel-and-concrete walls and innards made of haphazardly cobbled together dwellings separated by the tiniest of alleys and a million stairs. No wonder then that the car steered clear off the center of the labyrinth, a nest full of rats both of the proverbial and literal kind, and headed for the docks instead. Whoever these guys were, they were definitely not from this neighborhood and just as eager to get out of there as most cops that ever had to venture into the slum. He couldn’t honestly say which neighborhood was worse – Tanner’s Road in the west, the Narrows in the North, or Park Row in the south – even though he had lived in all of them at some point in his life. One thing he did know for sure was that the car had finally stopped.

“Warehouse by pier thirty-nine, just south of the city limits. I’m sending the coordinates to your cowl and an anonymous tip to GCPD.”

“Got it.”

With a quick swish across the touch pad, Jason sent the camera feed of the warehouse entrance to his second screen and brought up the real-time footage. The car was still there. The place itself still sat lonely – or at least as lonely as anyone in the Narrows could be – on the pier. He dug out an ear piece from a nearby drawer and tuned in to one of Nightwing’s private comms frequencies. The muffled roar of the motorcycle was a strangely soothing backdrop for the beginning of his next target. He could only hope Mrs. Traves from Wayne Enterprises’ marketing division had been taken along a route that was easier to trace.

“We still have twenty-five minutes,” Dick muttered through the comms as if he had read his mind. “It will be ok. We’ll get them all.”

“One: Joker is a chronic liar. If he says he’ll start pumping in the gas at nine, you can bet your sweet ass he’s going to start at least a minute early. Secondly, you can’t always save everyone, Goldie.” There was no sugar-coating it, as much as Dick liked to try, nor was stubbornly refusing to face facts like Bruce was so inclined to do any healthier. You could not always save everyone. Jason cast another glance at the on-screen list as he tracked the blue Chevrolet from in front of Mrs. Traves house in the suburbs of Gotham East down to the mainland. Life was cruel and unfair. Case in point: apartment building with mostly non-functional or horribly pixilated surveillance vs. live color camera footage so clear and sharp he could make out the license plate number even without breaking out the image processing tools.

No, life wasn’t fair, but he could appreciate Dick’s effort to relieve some of that horrible, icy feeling in his gut by opening his comms line to the direct auditory feedback from his cowl. He would not be able to see what was going on, but he could hear.

In this case, he could hear the shattering of glass, loud angry cries and the sound of a gun clicking, followed by the oh-so-familiar crack of breaking bones and severe concussions in the making, and the heavy shuffling of unconscious bodies being dragged to the nearest pipe, grate or heavy furniture where they could be properly restrained with Wayne Tech branded zip ties. Another crash of glass and the tell-tale click of lock picked handcuffs coming off later, Dick’s voice once more filtered through the line.

“It’s alright. You’re safe now. GCPD has been informed and they’ll be here soon.”

“Thank you.” There was a slight slur underneath the relieved voice that hinted at a nasty concussion of her own. He thought back to the footage from the Coventry as he caught the blue Chevy moving slowly past an infra-red camera near Blackgate peninsula. The silence lasted for all of nine seconds. “You know, not to sound ungrateful, but what are you still doing here? I thought you guys always disappeared soon as people turn their backs.”

It was a good question and he was curious to hear the answer. Judging from the info on Barb’s screen, she was nearly done with her third charge for this hour and almost ready to hand it off to the next available bat in the field.

“I don’t know if you noticed,” Dick sounded almost sheepish, “but we’re in the Narrows right now. I’m not leaving a kidnapping victim with a concussion all alone _in the Narrows_.”

She seemed to mull that thought over for a bit, before murmuring her answer. “So I suppose what those guys said on the way here... that there’s a dozen other people that are about to get gassed... that was just a bluff?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Then just go.” He could almost hear the scowl and sigh at the other end of the line. “You don’t need to feel extra-responsible here. I _know_ which company I work for and I know who _owns_ it. I wouldn’t be working for it still if I wasn’t okay with the occupational hazard that comes with it. That goes for almost everyone at WE.”

His fingers froze above the keyboard. _I know who owns it_. Was she referring to Bruce or Tim? Batman or Robin? One was a definite no-brainer, unless she had been sleeping _under_ a rock for the last fifteen months. The other was a definite no-brainer unless her brain was _made_ of rocks, and that it was definitely not. He thought back to the many arguments he had had with Barb over this, to that night at Bracken when he had finally unleashed all his pent up aggressions and accusations on the man who was partially responsible for this mess. Knowing that Bruce Wayne had been Batman, it did not take a genius detective to figure out the rest. The living proof was on the other end of the line. Some part of him was aware that he should be deeply worried about the underlying implication of just how fragile all of their secret identities were, but instead, he only felt relieved. Vindicated. It was good to know that he was not simply insane. Or, at the very least, not insane all by himself.

“I also _know_ that you guys are currently one man down, so please... You’ve saved the damsel in distress. You’re done here. Good job. Right now, someone else needs you a lot more than I do.”

Of course she knew. She had been there. The hole in his flank that was almost half-closed by now itched in response, a phantom pain that he could not feel in his flesh, but that registered in his brain nonetheless.

“Nightwing, come in.” Barbara did not know about any of this of course. This conversation was on a private line. If he had to take a guess, that was a decision Dick was probably very grateful for right about now. “Are you done in the Narrows? Do you have a hand to spare?”

“Yeah.” To his credit, Dick managed to sound as if nothing had happened. “Yeah, fire away.”

“I tracked another hostage to the Miagani tunnels. Infra-red cameras at the tower show lots of activity, so be careful.”

“Come on, Barb!” The smile easily managed to reach into Dick’s voice, but even without a visual, Jason was pretty sure it hadn’t reached his eyes. “It’s me, remember?”

“Exactly.”

She sent the next address – almost mockingly close to Wayne Tower – to his gauntlet, then dug into the Wayne Enterprises employee records for the eighth name on the list. The clock read 20:41. Against his better judgment, Jason felt the idea that they might actually be able to pull this off in-time creep into the back of his head.

He really should have known better.

While two squad cars arrived at the pier in the Narrows and the officers got to work securing Joker’s goons and their hostage, and Alfred handed his own results over to Robin, the car carrying Whitney Traves disappeared off his screen with the camera footage as it left the area near Blackgate that was riddled with night vision cameras, and continued onwards into the much more secluded darkness of the no man’s land between the bridge to the islands and the campus grounds of McCallum Academy. He hacked the surveillance feed of the closest campus entrances, only to come up short.

“Shit.” Had they gone through one of the gates further away from the bridge and the shore? He brought up the respective video footage immediately, only to be disappointed once more. Not a single sign of a blue Chevy. Not a single sign of much of anything, really. It was Friday night, after all. Who would hang around a school campus on a Friday night of all nights?

“Oracle, I’m done at Ryker Heights.” Bruce was stoic as ever of course, even if he did most likely have a perfect view of the largest clock in Gotham right now and could see the seconds ticking away quietly. “Do you have the location of the eighth hostage?”

“I wish.” Barbara’s brow had furrowed into a thin, aggravated line. Apparently, her research had led her to the maze that was Bristol Township, with its own myriad of cameras that proved quantity could not trump quality. A thousand eyes were useless if they were half-blind, especially if the vehicle you were chasing had gone into the underground tunnel network. “Hood, what about you?”

 _Yes, what about you?_ Joker cooed in the back of his mind. _I mean, you’ve been at this for quite a bit longer than dear old Barbie and what have you got to show for it? Nothing! Couldn’t even keep up with a simple Chevy... Honestly, Todders, I am disappointed. So is Batsy, most likely._

“Red?” That was not Oracle’s voice, nor was it Joker, although that was all he could make out against the rush of mad cackling in his brain. _Why now, of all times?_ “Red, are you okay?”

“Jason—“

“Goddamn it, Ghost!” Now _that_ was definitely Barbara. A very, very angry Barbara. “What did I say earlier about ‘no comments, no prying’ from you of all people?”

“Also, field names.” He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to actually say that out loud, but he knew he was just handing himself a shovel to dig that hole a few feet deeper. Somehow, that thought actually made him chuckle. “I mean, I know I’m not technically in the field right now, but would it kill you to try at least?” On the screen, the seconds ticked away without mercy. 20:44. He did not have time for a panic attack. Whitney Traves did not have time for a panic attack. With a deep breath, Jason forced himself to go back to the last bit of camera footage he had of the vehicle. “I was tracking a blue Chevrolet Malibu from her house in Gotham East all the way to the land bridge to Gotham South. They took a left after that, but I can’t find the car on any of the footage from McCallum campus, the mainland shore or the surrounding toll booths for that matter. Maybe they switched cars in some dead zone before the main CCTV grid. Maybe they went down some forest road and he’ll send us a map five minutes past nine. Hell, they could have made a U turn and gone back to Gotham East for all I know.”

“Send me the coordinates, Hood.”

For once, there was no impatient, overly demanding pressure to the tone. There was no please either, but given who that sentence was coming from... He forwarded the last known location automatically, almost in a trance as he tried to make sense of what exactly was happening here. It was still an order, not a request, even though it almost felt like one. What the hell had Alfred done to him to get him down to that level of cooperative behavior? What had his siblings done?

“You’re looking for tread patterns of a Chevrolet Malibu.” At long last, the logical parts of his brain, the purely calculating, down to business, no nonsense part of his brain, had taken over once more and Jason almost wanted to sigh in relief. It was always easier when that happened. He would regret it an hour or two, when all the crap his mind was so helpfully pushing onto the back burner right now would come back with a vengeance, but right now, this was a good thing. “They were going below the speed limit, so expect light tracks. Right back tire still had summer wheels on.”

“Seriously?” Barb looked at him in a mix of confusion and amazement. “How the hell can you tell? I’m looking at the footage right now and the quality may be good but...”

“Sniper, remember?” It was a can of worms he hadn’t meant to open and it was sure to come back to bite him, too, but it was the truth. He was done hiding. He was done lying. Sniping was a fucking skill and if Bruce didn’t appreciate that, he could just go fuck himself. “They also had a pair of those fuzzy dice people like to put in their cars hanging from the back mirror. Left tail light is broken and there is a series of slight dents and scratches near the left back door. Driver’s about five feet eight and has dark hair and a goatee. Wears a gray shemagh for a scarf and has a tattoo on his left forearm. Looked like an American traditional from first glance, but I’d have to take another look to confirm that. You want me to continue going down the list?”

Barb’s lips curved into a devious, yet somehow ridiculously warm smile. “If it helps you take your mind off things and relax, go ahead.”

 _What the—_ He tried to wrap his mind around that, but came up blank. He had fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book and Barb knew it. The feeling was strangely familiar and it took his brain a good minute to drag the memory back out of the dark soup his time in the Asylum had reduced so much of his recollections to. ‘Divert and redirect’ was a tactic that came natural to Barbara, and she had used that talent on a regular basis. Half his evenings with Barbara had started with him grinding through his homework on her couch, with the benefit of a tutor who was roughly his age, and had ended with both of them arguing over network security, encryption protocols and Batman’s borderline suicidal driving style. Half his shifts on patrol with Batgirl had ended with the two of them in that 24/7 sushi place in Burnley, still dressed in full costume, arguing over whether sashimi was superior to rolls and whether popcorn chicken on a sushi menu was an interesting addition or a crime against good taste. His stomach growled at the thought and the sudden realization that he hadn’t eaten anything but a quick snack in almost fourteen hours.

“Thank you, BG. Now I want popcorn chicken...”

He watched her bend over and clutch her stomach as she tried and barely managed to stifle the laughter into little more than quiet giggles. “Jesus Christ, Hood—“

“You were right.” Bruce’s voice cut through the silly mood in the room like a knife through butter and for a moment, all Jason wanted to do was put his fist through the nearest monitor. “They took her back to her house in Gotham East. She’s in the garage.”

He wasn’t sure what it was that had set off the little alarm bells in his head, but he could feel his gut curl into a painful knot as the words filtered through his brain. _Why leave the hostage in their own home if they were supposed to gas—_

 _Oh fuck_. On his monitor, the clock read 20:53. “B, get the fuck out of there! The garage is rigged!”

“I know.”

Even without a visual, the flat tone in his voice was enough to guess what Ghost was looking at right now: a garage full of laughing gas canisters. On the main screen, Barbara repurposed the security camera on the front porch of Mrs. Traves neighbor from the opposite side of the street to get a good view of the area. The Batmobile was parked just a few steps down the road. The garage door was opening slowly thanks to Ghost’s remote hacking device. He slipped underneath the instant it was raised just high enough.

Ten seconds later, all hell broke loose. The Christmas lights all around the house came on first, lighting up the dark, slumbering neighborhood. Then came the screaming. He watched, glued to his seat, as Ghost dragged her from the garage, away from the vapors that were slowly escaping from beneath the heavy door and out into the wide open, fresh night air. It started with a cough, just as it usually did, and he could feel his lungs come ablaze at the memory. Like sandpaper on the inside of the lung. First an itch, then a scratch, then a burn and, finally, a fierce agony that was stuck somewhere between piercing and grinding. The need to cough, to breath, only that every gulp of air was really just a trigger for a series of muscle spasm that would grow stronger as time went on, turning wheezing and coughing into howling and laughing.

“Ghost, breath shallow!” Depending on just how strong this batch might be, there was a good chance he couldn’t hear him anymore, but he had to try. “You’ll want to breathe deeply, but that will only make it worse. Just like hyperventilating. Slow, shallow breaths!”

On the other end of the comms line, the female cough slowly turned into a cackle, only to stop suddenly. It was the best course of action. Knocking her out might not be enough to fix the issue, but it would buy her precious minutes that she’d need for the airdrop to arrive. Barb’s fingers were already racing across the keyboard, programming the coordinates into the emergency deploy system Lucius had installed in Wayne Tower. Against the background of distant, sleepy chatter, Ghost’s own labored breaths sounded heavy as cement, but at least they were shallow enough. “Anti-toxin airdrop is on its way, so don’t you dare croak on us! I’m gonna start counting to one-hundred and you’ll keep on breathing nice and shallow or I’ll get over there and knock you out as well.”

He didn’t wait for the reply, instead starting the countdown as the drone lifted off. Without the Batwing for immediate supply drops, they had had to resort to smaller, less conspicuous methods, and for once his time spent in the militia had actually come in handy. Repurposing the drone technology he had used for the Serpents and Dragons had been easier than he had expected. In the end, it had only taken him three design trading sessions with Lucius to work out something that would be efficient, yet feasible to produce from Wayne Tech leftovers of R&D testing. Now it was finally going to pay off.

The drone reached its coordinates fourteen seconds early. As designed, the rotors and wings folded inwards, turning the flying object into a mini missile that took a straight, controlled dive into the ground. According to the sensors inside, the cargo was still intact.

“Grab that antidote, then step away from the drop. It’s set to self-destruct ten seconds after removal of cargo.”

“Seriously?!” Nightwing sounded positively horrified. “Is there anything you’ve built that doesn’t explode after use?”

“Not really.” He knew Dick couldn’t see the sneer, but he gave it for free nonetheless. “Standard tech security protocol: if it’s useless after first use, make sure there’ll be nothing left but bits so no one can reverse-engineer it. Don’t worry. It uses a custom reactant. Minimal radius and shrapnel, maximum heat output. Stuff will melt before it explodes violently enough to do serious damage. It’s one-hundred percent Lucius-approved and field-tested, so don’t get your panties in a bunch, Goldie.”

As if on cue, he could hear the tell-tale sizzling of the self-destructs activation mechanism in the background. More importantly though, the coughing had stopped.

“Ghost, are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine, Oracle.”

“You’d better be, old man,” Jason scowled at the screen even as he shut off his own two monitors. “If I have to watch the big birds attend your funeral one more time, I’m gonna make you regret if from now to doomsday.” The communicator in his left ear was the last piece to go before he backed off from the computer to reach for the bowl of soup that had been sitting untouched for almost an hour. Predictably, it was cold as the snow outside the manor by now. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go heat this up, finally have some fucking dinner and get some fucking sleep.”

He didn’t stick around to wait for the reply. It would be slow going, moving to the elevator, up to the first floor and into the kitchen without spilling the soup in his lap, and the sooner he’d leave the better. Only once the doors of the elevator closed before him did Jason finally allow himself to let his guard down, even just a little.

_So much for a first all-hands-on-deck experience._

It hadn’t sucked nearly as much as he had feared it would, and that in and of itself was a damn miracle. He had been expecting a lecture or a very aggressive game of twenty questions at least, but somehow, everyone had managed to shut up and stay focused on the job. They had found all ten hostages and while only a few days in hospital would tell whether Mrs. Traves would survive her Joker toxin poisoning, at least they had found everyone. Even if she died, nine out of ten was not bad at all.

 _Bats would call that a failing grade_ , Todders, Joker reminded him. _You are a disappointment all over again._

 “One...” He took a deep breath. Perhaps talking to himself while rolling through a house ten times too big for the number of people who lived there was not the sanest thing to do, but then again, sanity hadn’t been his strong suit in years. “One, Bats can go fuck himself.” He really could. Nine out of ten was not bad. Not with what they had to deal with. Nothing in life was ever perfect. “Two, the only one I’m disappointing is you.”

At least, that was the most logical explanation he could imagine for why the laughter in his head had chosen to morph into a full-blown voice just this evening.

_Does it piss you off, Joker? The fact that I’m running around with your old name, actually doing some good with what you turned me into? Does it hurt?_

He certainly hoped so. He hoped that, somewhere in this cruel and harsh, yet somehow fatally attractive city Joker was very definitely not laughing. He hoped the bastard was fuming right now. He hoped that every time some reporter, blogger or innocent bystander told a tale of the heroics of the remaining bat clan Joker and Scarecrow were feeling the utter futility of everything they had done and the pain of repeated failure. He hoped it fucking hurt.

The first thing he noticed when he reached the kitchen was that the lights were on. The second was the deep pot on top of the stove – turned to full heat, as a matter of fact. The third was the open door to the pantry. In the six seconds it took his brain to combine all three observations into their most reasonable scenario, his hands had already sat the tray with the soup down on the counter and reached for the nearest knife.

Thankfully, Alfred dignified the hostile gesture with little more than a raised eyebrow as he stepped out of the storage room. “I appreciate your proactive approach to aiding an old man in the kitchen, Master Todd, I can assure you all the cutting has been done already.”

“I’m sorry, Alfie.” When Batman pulled the disappear-unnoticed-and-then-suddenly-show-up-somewhere-else trick it was annoying. When Alfred did it, it was downright unsettling. He hadn’t even noticed him slip from the control room. “Goddamn paranoia...”

If Alfred was upset at all, he didn’t show it. “There is nothing to apologize for, Master Todd.” He closed the door to the pantry quietly, then made his way back to the stove and the pot of quickly heating oil on top of it. “You lead a dangerous life, and so do your brothers, your father and your sister-in-law, and without said paranoia, I am quite confident that not even half of you would still be here to apologize.”

“You wish we would all just hang up our cowls and hoods and retire, don’t you?”

Alfred shot him a look that was somewhere between baffled and amused. “Don’t you, Master Todd? At least every once in a while?”

“Sometimes.” It was the most honest answer he could give and Alfred deserved no less. “It usually lasts for all of two minutes.”

That was the truth, too. There was more to vigilantism than putting on a cowl and cape and beating up thugs in the dead of the night. It was more than just a job. The idea of letting all of it go was just...

The thought _had_ come to him, at several points in his life. Back when he had still been Robin, he had always dismissed it almost immediately. Robin had been the best thing that had ever happened to him. It had turned him from a nameless, doomed-to-fail-or-jail street rat into someone who could actually make a difference, or had at least felt like he could. It had given him a purpose, a goal beyond day to day survival. It had also brought him to Alfie, Barb, Dick and even Bruce. Without Robin—the thought had seemed outlandish and ridiculous right up until Joker had shown him that photo.

After that, quitting Robin had really seemed kind of quaint. After that, he had been ready to quit life. The Arkham Knight had objected, had dragged him through the pain back to the surface. Jason had continued thinking about quitting. The Arkham Knight had continued shutting him up. He wondered what Alfred and the others would say if they knew just how close he had come to ending it all, sooooo many times, and how the murderous psychopath who had nearly destroyed Gotham had been his salvation. He also hoped that was a conversation they were never going to have.

And now? Well, he wasn’t Robin anymore, but he _was_ still here. And he _was_ still fighting. He could still do this. He might have lost ninety-nine percent of who he had been along the way, but he still had a purpose. And as long as he did, his life – however fucked up and miserable it sometimes was – still had meaning. He couldn’t give up. He refused to give up.

“Not the answer you wanted to hear, is it?” He slipped the knife back into the block and headed for the microwave. If they were going to have this conversation now, at the very least he could heat up his dinner in the meantime.

“It is, and it is not.” Alfred’s hands moved along the cupboards methodically, procuring a small plate, a ridiculously small bowl and a sieve. It was an odd mix to be sure. Only once he carefully lowered the contents of a bigger bowl nearby into the big pot did the selection make sense. That sizzling sound was pretty much unmistakable. Jason couldn’t help raising an eyebrow.

“You know, I can’t remember you ever deep-frying anything in this kitchen.”

“And I never would, Master Todd, if I were cooking solely for myself or perhaps Master Bruce as well, but if I recall correctly, you have always had a liking for unhealthy comfort food.”

“Emphasis on _unhealthy_ ,” Jason argued. What strange, creepy world were they living in, that he was lecturing Alfred on dietary standards? “Lots of saturated fats and trans fats. Can’t see this being helpful to my recovery.”

“Physically, no.” Alfred nodded in agreement while turning the food in the hot oil. “But neither is vigilantism.” He put the sieve in the sink, lined it with a kitchen towel and poured the contents of the pot out carefully. “But people are more than just physical bodies, Master Todd. I can assure you: your emotional well-being is just as important to me as your bodily health. First of all, I am fairly confident one unhealthy, yet comforting side dish is not sufficient to ruin the five weeks of care-taking we have already subjected you to.”

The microwave beeped as if straight on cue, saving him from the impulsive, scathing remark that had been on his tongue – _five freaking weeks, dear god, don’t remind me of that_. He stirred the soup once, then tasted it, and was ultimately convinced by the loud, almost tangible growling of his stomach that the meal was just about hot enough after all. By the time he had moved to the kitchen table, Alfred had already broken out the tea cloths and the actual tea, and was busy arranging everything as neatly as ever. Somehow, his mind took the methodical movements of Alfred’s hands as the perfect opportunity to backtrack.

“You said ‘first of all’, Alfred. Is there a secondly, a thirdly? A lastly?”

“Only one more thing.” The rich smell of Alfred’s red tea was sharp and strong almost the second the water entered the cup. He had never revealed its precise contents to anyone, and if Jason wasn’t mistaken he had had one hell of a time watching Jason try to figure them out by sheer scent and taste. He had successfully identified three of the four ingredients by the time life had decided to put him under the crowbar.

“I am very relieved that there is still some of that fierce, yet unbelievably empathic daredevil of a young boy that Master Bruce had brought home one fateful July night left in you, even if he has grown up to become an incredibly strong, yet troubled fireball of a man, and I will fight tooth and nail to keep him alive. And if supporting him in his affinity for vigilantism and ‘junk food’ such as burgers and chili dogs is what it takes to keep him whole and happy, then that is a small price to pay, indeed.”

Jason watched carefully as Alfred went to fetch the bowl of whatever he had decided to prepare last minute. The pot he had used for deep-frying now sat abandoned and lifeless on the cold back burner of the stove. “This is not how you make a chili dog, Alfred.”

“No.” With just the tiniest hint of a smile, Alfred set the dishes down to the upper left of his soup bowl. “This is how you make proper popcorn chicken.”


	24. It Takes A Village

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say it takes a village to raise a child. Tim may not have a village and he may not have a child, but one thing he knows for sure: it will take a family to heal his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay in getting this chapter out. I was suffering from a serious case of OMG!RealLife and writer's block. Hope you'll still enjoy.
> 
> Fun fact about this chapter: I completely re-wrote the last 1.5 pages while proof-reading. It was much more H and much less C before. Might publish the original later on my blog. Either way, enjoy :)

Bruce was an ass. Tim cursed under his breath as he stored his gear away in the hidden compartment that also held a set of Batgirl’s old suit and gadgets. He had to give him credit where credit was due – his attitude had improved considerably ever since Jason’s near-suicide on New Year’s and he was at least keeping his distance from Jason for the time being – but he was still an ass. Too stubborn for his own good. Too dismissive of everyone around him.

After saving Joker’s last hostage, everyone had been voting for Ghost to call it a night and go home to rest. Joker’s laughing gas was a powerful neurotoxin after all. Until they had assessed the damage it had caused to his nerves and lungs, it would have been prudent to take it easy and leave the heavy lifting to the other two vigilantes in town.

For all the great titles Batman had amassed over the years, including ‘World’s Greatest Detective’ he had never been a very prudent man. Smart? Yes. Intelligent? Highly. Equipped with common sense and a good degree of caution? Nope.

Very definitely nope.                                                                                                                     

Tim sighed and used the remote hacking device to close up the storage. The panels covering it were a triple layer of heavy lead, Jason’s woefully not patented camouflage material and a coat of Wayne Tech branded steel-titanium and concrete mesh that blended in so flawlessly with the rest of the secret basement that it might as well have been invisible.

“You look stressed, honey.” The cup of green tea Barb was holding out to him was steaming hot and smelled absolutely delicious. “Don’t let him wear you down, Tim. You are not responsible from him.”

“Easy for you to say,” Tim grumbled as he took the first few tentative, burning sips and rolled his shoulders. Somehow, being out of the uniform always made him feel like a sitting duck for the first couple of minutes. “You are not the one who had to follow him across Gotham.”

“Neither were you,” Barb argued. She was shutting down the systems for the night and the sudden loss of light from the monitors made the basement appear downright creepy. “Bruce is not Jason. _He_ is aware of how much damage he is doing to himself and he is aware of the fact that he can readily receive help for it whenever he needs it. He _knows_ all he has to do is ask. The fact that he is not asking is not your fault and not your responsibility.”

“I know.”

Babs was right of course. For all the many awful, self-damaging ways in which Bruce and Jason were so much alike – the apple really had not fallen very far from the tree – Bruce had always known that he had people he could count on. Jason... still seemed to find it hard to accept that there were people who cared enough to think and worry about him, much less do the heavy lifting for him. And yet, Jason had somehow been more cooperative over the last four weeks than Bruce had been in... well, ever, really.

Bruce’s bio readings had spiked the moment he had gotten poisoned and though they had gone back into non-life-threatening ranges soon enough – Tim was pretty sure Jason’s advice throughout the initial recovery and the quick antidote drop had been largely responsible for that – they had remained unhealthily high throughout the night. The fact that it had taken him and Dick less than half an hour to find and corner Bruce on a rooftop where they could at least try to talk him out of patrol was proof enough that the poison affected him more than he had let on. Of course, Bruce had tried his usual ‘I’m fine and you two are needed elsewhere shtick, but this time, neither he nor Dick had backed down. Perhaps taking care of an equally stubborn younger brother had finally rubbed off on how they treated their father as well, but this time, there had been no muttered ‘alright’ and no exasperated ‘fine, I get the point’. Bruce, for all his superiority complexes, had proven to be just as capable at taking well-intentioned, helpful and healthy advice as Jason, and had smoke-bombed both of them to make a quick escape. He wondered whether Jason had picked the habit up from Bruce or vice versa and what either one of them would say if he were to point out the morbid hilarity of it all.

“Tim...” Barb’s hand curled around his wrist slowly and he looked down from that nice blank wall that he had been staring at to find her blue eyes looking at him in concern peppered with slight frustration. “It’s not your fault and it’s not your job to worry about everyone. Alfred’s probably already back at Bracken by now to look after Bruce. Dick’s already looking after Jason. Let’s just grab a shower and go to bed, okay?”

“Okay.”

She was right, of course. Barb usually was.

***

The sun was high up in the sky by the time his six hours of sleep were up and he hit the alarm on his phone just quick enough to keep Barb from waking up to it as well. It had stopped snowing too, although a quick look at the outdoor thermometer proved that that merely meant they had traded precipitation for extreme cold and the three feet of snow that had already fallen in the days before were here to stay. He only hoped it would stay that way for the next three weeks. There was no doubt that Jason was going to try to escape from the manor, even just temporarily, the moment he was switched from wheel chair to crutches, and Tim would very much prefer if he didn’t try to do it in the middle of a blizzard. With a deep sigh, Tim set out for his usual morning bee line from the master bed room to the coffee machine in the kitchen and back up to Jason’s temporary bed room on the second floor.

His first sign that something was seriously wrong was the pale, disheveled mess sitting outside of Jason’s door. The dark circles around Dick’s eyes nearly matched the matted black of the fringe falling over them, and if it hadn’t been for the hand that slowly turned the pages of Dick’s latest European fantasy literature project – the hardcover copy of Jules Verne’s _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Seas_ that Alfred had gifted to him for Christmas, Tim noted – he would have been tempted to assume that his older brother was asleep as well. Sadly, he was not. Tim steeled himself with a deep sigh before approaching him.

“Long shift, Dick?”

“You have no idea.” It took Dick all of two seconds to wipe the exhaustion and worry off of his face, but even then it was two seconds too much. They were all trained detectives after all. “How are you doing, Tim? Good six hours of sleep?”

“Better than either one of you, from the looks of it,” Tim replied with a quick nod at the door. The minute flicker of remorse and pain in Dick’s eyes was unmistakable, even if he tried to cover it up with small talk. It was his version of a smoke pellet or flash bang grenade and Tim was not going to have it. Not now. Not after Jason. Not after Bruce. “Come on, Dick.” He settled down next to his older brother carefully, close enough for a hug if needed, but not quite touching yet, and rested his arms on his knees. “You had a fight with Jason. If you hadn’t, you’d be in there, not out here. Judging from the circles around your eyes, you haven’t gotten a minute of sleep, so either Jason’s been up all morning with fresh nightmares, or you’ve been sitting out here for almost six hours. And we both know these doors are sound-proof, so the only explanation for why you are not already telling me about what’s happened is that you’re blaming yourself.”

It was the short flinch that told him he had hit the nail on the head, but Tim chose to ignore it. None of them were particularly good at this ‘opening up and spilling your soul’ thing, and he blamed that at least partly on Bruce as well. After all, Bruce – the real Bruce, not ‘playboy for the media’ Bruce – had always seemed like an unapproachable block of ice and the few times any of them had approached him with personal, emotional issues had usually been followed by awkward silences and even more awkward attempts at comfort that proved Bruce knew everything about protecting and providing, but nothing about parenting. And so, eventually, it had always been Alfred they had ended up telling all their woes to, who took to this additional duty with as much grace, warmth and willing helpfulness as any man could muster. Learning how to cope without him had been an arduous process for all of them, and one that was still on-going. He would give Dick all the time he would need, just as he did with Jason. He deserved that much.

“I think I screwed up... again...” Dick finally muttered after a long forty-eight seconds. He had started to mirror Tim’s position, ditching the book for the additional stability and better bracing that the arms-on-knees position provided. “You know how I’ve been saying that I just want to see Jason laugh and smile again, like he sometimes used to when he was a kid?” Tim nodded and Dick swallowed hard enough to make a sound even before he continued talking. “Well... he did. He smiled. And he laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And... God, Tim have you ever _heard_ Joker’s laughing gas in action?”

“No.” It was an honest answer and Tim made sure to keep eye contact with his brother as he said it. They were all trained observers. Lying was easy, but not quite so much when you had to look somebody you knew straight in the eye. He could only hope Dick appreciated the gesture and took it for what it was: a demonstration of sincerity. “I’ve seen the results of it...” There had been pictures on the Batcomputer, crime scene photos. Those had been his first exposure, back in the days when he had still been in training to become Robin. Later, he had seen the results of it in the field, dead faces distorted into grotesque displays of humor and hilarity, except there was no joke. It was an insult to the dead, which was probably precisely why Joker found it funny. However, he had never actually been there in person when someone had been gassed. He had been spared that horror. At least up until last night.

“It started out with the usual,” Dick finally continued. “You know what I mean, right? Like, Jason usually starts thrashing about, than he starts talking, then screaming...”

Tim nodded. They had all learned pretty quickly to stop him before he even got to that point, at least after the fear toxin had been purged from his body. Before that, all they had been able to do was weather the situation as best as they could. It had only been ten days, but he had already had all the horrifying hours of Jason howling in agony that he would ever be able to stomach. Judging from the way Dick had started tapping his feet and stretching out his fingers – minute, but rapid physical movement to compensate for the lack of proper flight options – he had reached his limits, too.

“It’s my fault, Tim,” the words practically crawled from his tongue. “I fell asleep – it’s been such a long, messed up week, what with Joker on the street, the anniversary, Bruce getting doused in Joker toxin and all that... I should have stayed awake, but somehow I just... dozed off.”

“Not your fault, Dick.” Tim kept his voice as low and even as he could. What Dick needed now was an anchor, a rock to cling onto, not another wave – even one of compassion – to spur his emotional side on even further. “We are all tired. We all need sleep. It is perfectly human and you are only human, too. It is not your fault.”

“I know.” _But I don’t believe it_. Tim had learned long ago to read between the lines. “I woke up to him screaming and I was just about to wake him when...” For a moment, Dick glanced around the hallway, as if he was searching the walls and ceiling for the rest of his sentence. Finally, he settled on staring at his hands once more. “Joker’s toxin... it just... you know that kind of sound when you’ve got a cold and you have to laugh and the laugh slowly turns into a cough? It’s like that. Just the other way around and... I swear, you could give me a recording of it and even after a hundred times of listening to it I would not be able to tell you when Jason stopped screaming and started laughing. It just... it sounded so... _wrong_. So... dark and hysterical and... Just thinking about that sound makes my skin crawl.”

“Then don’t think about it.” It sounded like a jerk-ass answer, Tim was aware of that. He had fully expected the quick, disgusted ‘are you for real’ look that Dick shot him. Then again, he hadn’t taken all those PTSD lectures and seminars of Dr. Brandt’s for nothing. “Don’t think about how it sounded. Don’t think about how it felt. Just tell me what happened. Logical progression: cause, effect. Beginning, middle, end. Don’t tell me a story, Dick. Just give me a report.”

“A report?!” Dick shook his head over a slightly hysterical giggle of his own. “Jesus Christ, Tim, are you trying to channel Bruce now?”

“No, if I were doing that, I would have said something like...” He cleared his throat quickly, then dropped his voice as deep as he could. “I’ll handle it, Dick. Go back to Blüdhaven.”

That actually turned the giggle into a true laugh and the sound was music in Tim’s ears. “Dear God, yes! That’s exactly what he would say. And then he’d try to shove me out the door if I didn’t move to follow his command immediately.”

“And you’d shove right back and he would either end up completely ignoring you and just go into Jason’s room without sparing you another glance, or you would both shout at each other until Jason would come out of his room to whack both of you over the head.”

“I don’t think Jason ever did that,” Dick countered.

“Because he never had both of you together in one room for long enough.”

“Alfred usually stepped in though.”

“Well, Alfred is not here,” Tim conceded. “But then again, I am not Bruce. I am not going to tell you to get lost. I am not going to try to make you leave. I am not going to shout at you. And I am certainly not going to involve Jason in any of this until I know exactly what’s going on. So...” He mustered his older brother quickly. The initial tension was gone, unraveled and broken down by the mutually father-figure-deprecating humor. The sadness and guilt was still there, but that was easy enough to handle. Dick was a much simpler creature to comfort than anybody else in the family. He curled his right hand around Dick’s still fumbling fingers and squeezed slightly. “Let’s try this again, shall we? What happened next?”

Dick’s fingers returned the gesture. He was still tapping his feet, but that was an acceptable bit of compensatory behavior as far as Tim was concerned. “I woke him up and he socked me right in the face. Jason’s got a pretty mean right hook, you know.”

He didn’t know it from first-hand experience and he hoped he never would, but he had seen Jason in action before. Tim nodded slightly, although now his eyes were subconsciously scanning for any damage.

“I’m fine,” Dick interrupted. “You don’t need to worry about me.” That was debatable, but Tim decided to let it slide for now. At least until Dick was done talking. “I waited until he was done laughing and looking around the room like some animal caught in a bear trap. When he finally seemed to have calmed down again enough to realize where he was, I tried to walk up to him slowly, to talk to him. That’s when things went really wrong.”

“Define ‘really wrong’.” Tim mentally braced himself for what was to come. If it had been bad enough to send Dick from the room, this could only be really, really bad, but he could not let it show. Right now, Dick needed him. Even more so, Jason needed him. He was sure of it, even if he hadn’t caught a single glance at him yet. Another fifty seconds passed before Dick finally answered, his voice flat and near-monotonous as was expected in a simple, factual report.

“He... I want to say he ‘yelled’ at me, but it wasn’t really yelling. More like... growling. He told me that he didn’t want me to touch him, talk to him or even come anywhere near him. That I should just leave him the fuck alone. I tried to compromise. Told him I wouldn’t touch him, wouldn’t ask any questions. I just wanted to sit down in the chair again, stay there to make sure he’d be okay...” The look Dick cast at the door against his back was somewhere between exasperation and grief. “He looked at me like a deer in the headlights for a second. _Then_ he started yelling. Told me that he didn’t ‘need no fucking mother hen’ watching over him day and night, that he was sick and tired of us babying him all the time and that he would ‘fucking end’ either me or himself if I didn’t leave right then and there.”

“How long ago was that?” Tim could practically hear Dick’s brain backtrack and rewind at the question.

“About three hours ago. I told him if that’s really what he wanted, I’d leave the room, but I’d be staying right outside the door in case he needed me.” Dick closed his eyes again for a moment and swallowed hard. When he finally looked back at Tim, the forlorn look of disappointment and shame was back in his eyes. “I fucked up pretty badly, didn’t I?”

Tim mulled that question, and the report that had led up to it, over in his head for a minute. There were hundreds of ways this latest nightmare episode could have ended. Of all the possible scenarios, this was nowhere near the worst he could imagine. “I don’t think you did. Actually, I think you did pretty well.” He could see instantly that Dick did not believe it, but he was not going to let that thought settle in his head. “Think of it as crime in progress.”

That made Dick raise an eyebrow and Tim could not blame him. He was not entirely sure why he had chosen that metaphor of all things, but the more he thought about it, the more appropriate it seemed. Jason’s continuous nightmares _were_ crimes, committed by Joker against their little brother, even from beyond the grave. And what was the point of Batman, Robin and Nightwing, if not to stop crimes in progress and prevent more of them from happening?

“Let’s go through it together, shall we? Step one: remove the victim from the danger.”

“I woke him up.”

“Step two: if the victim is not calm enough to be left to their own devices, stick around at an acceptable distance until they have calmed down enough to communicate.”

“Can’t argue there.”

“Step three: slowly approach the victim.”

“I tried.”

“Step four: acknowledge victim’s personal boundaries and promise to respect them.”

“Step five: inform victim that you will contact someone to pick them up and take them to safety,” Dick finished for him and his lips curled into an angry snarl. “Who the hell was I supposed to contact? The dream police? I just left him in there and—“

“You didn’t.” It had taken Tim everything he had to keep the words as flat, neutral and strictly factual in tone as he could, but somehow he managed. “The reason we contact GCPD and let them deal with the victims is because we have a perpetrator to catch, remember? But we’re talking Jason’s nightmares here. There is nothing you or I can do about those. They are in _his_ head and _he_ is the only one who can fight them. This is not a battle _we_ can win.”

“Then what exactly are _we_ supposed to do?” Dick sounded downright heart-broken and he was up on his feet in a minute. Pacing. Always pacing. In a slightly less emotionally charged situation, Tim was sure he would have been walking on his hands or dangling from one of the rafters above the main hall right now. “Do you want us to just sit here and cheer him from the side lines like some silly junior high girl with a pair of glittery pompons?”

“Well, not quite as flashy,” Tim admitted, “but yeah, in a nutshell, that’s exactly what we are supposed to do.” Dick’s face was stuck between disbelief and horror and Tim decided to make good use the two seconds of peaceful quiet he would get before the inevitable rant. It was now or never.

“Dick, just because he is the only one who can fight his demons does not mean that we cannot help him. I have spent the last three years studying to become a teacher, so let me give you the abridged version of child developmental psychology: humans are social creatures, by default. Do you have any idea how utterly _crucial_ it is to the mental and emotional health of a child to have parents or siblings or any other kind of caregiver who can support them from the sidelines and with whom they can develop a basic trust? I mean, think back to your own childhood. Did your parents slay the monster under your bed? No. But they made sure you felt like you were strong enough to do it yourself and they made sure to let you know that there would always, _always_ be someone there to catch you if you fell, to help you if you needed help. Jason didn’t have that for the first fourteen years of his life and by that point the damage is usually as good as irreversible. And Jason _knows_ that, not because he took the damn classes, but because he is smart enough to have figured that out after he experienced what true care-giving feels like, thanks to Alfred. He tried to goad you into leaving, into abandoning him.”

“And I did.”

“No, you didn’t.” God, did everyone in this family have to be so thick-headed and self-centered when it came to shouldering blame? How the hell had Alfred even put up with them for all these years? “You acknowledged his boundaries, his needs and wishes, and then you made sure to let him know that you would still be here. So, here is what we are going to do now...”

His feet erupted into little pins and needles as he dragged himself off the ground, but Tim swallowed the sensation together with the frustration that was threatening to worm its way up his throat and onto his tongue. Instead, he put his hand on Dick’s shoulder, a quick test to check just how much physical proximity his spooked older brother would allow. When he didn’t move away, Tim went for the hug. Compared to Bruce and Jason, it was almost ridiculous how quick Dick was to return the gesture, digging his hands into Tim’s shirt and burrowing his head against his shoulder.

“You are going to pick up your book. I am going to open the door, just a bit. You are going to tell me about the last passage you read, as if that was what we have been talking about all this time, and I will tell you how interesting that sounds and that I will have to borrow that one later.”

“Barb and Alfred said you already read all of Jules Verne’s stuff.”

“Not the point, Dick.” Tim smiled. “After that, _you_ will head off to your room to finally get some sleep, while I will go in there and try to lure Jason out of this room with the promise of breakfast and weight training. Mind you, he’ll probably insist on preparing the breakfast himself, because we ‘are all fucking hopeless in the kitchen’, but I think my pride can just about take that hit.” That earned him a short bout of laughter – completely safe, non-toxic laughter – from Dick and the sound instantly made him feel just a little better. It did nothing to dispel the dawning dread at the realization of the sheer task that was ahead of him, but at the very least it meant he only had to worry about one of his brothers. “And when we meet up for patrol tonight, we are going give Alfred a few minutes off to confer with Jason about what’s going on and how he wants to proceed. Maybe he needs some more space because he is just not used to having this much support and care all around him and it is freaking him out. Maybe he is just getting antsy because he has been stuck here, half-helpless, for more than a month now and it’s pissing him off. Either way, we _are_ going to figure out something that works for all of us, okay?”

“Okay.” For a few seconds, Dick squeezed just a little harder, before he finally let go again and took a step back. The dark circles were still there, but so was the smile. “You know... you’re gonna be a fantastic teacher, Tim.”

“Thanks, Dick. That’s the plan. Now, take a deep breath, pick up that book, and let’s get started.”

For once, things did actually go roughly as planned, and Tim used every second he could spare to thank whatever guardian angels had been watching over him for the stellar assistance. The two minutes he spent chatting with Dick about divers in suits and weird deep sea creatures and krakens were honestly among the most relaxingly mundane conversations he had had all month, even if it was half a fake. He made a mental note to pick up where they had left off later and take some time to foster that shared love of Jules Verne’s prose before his brain decided to shove it away for grittier, case-related things. They all needed a little more light in their lives. Even – no, especially – Dick.

Jason was sitting by the window, already fully dressed and groomed for the day, gazing out across the gardens behind the manor with a cigarette in one hand and a pencil in the other. The smoke escaped through the slightly open window in cold white puffs and Tim quickly shoved down the many, many PSA-taught remarks that wanted to come across his lips. Jason had probably heard them all before, most likely from Bruce no less, and he did not need a lecture now. Instead it was about time they broke this ice of feigned disinterest and ignorance.

“Good morning, Ja—“

“Spare me the small talk.” He watched him stub out the cigarette in the snow on the outside sill, before closing the window and dumping the bud in the nearby trash can. Tim made another note to empty that bin before Dick could get a glimpse at it and risk throwing an instinctive fit. “I’m pretty sure big bird’s already brought you up to speed, so why don’t we just get on with it and you can roast me for my gross misbehavior.”

 _Definitely goading_. Part of him wanted to smile at how utterly and ridiculously close Jason could be in behavior to a pouting pre-teen. The smile died when the rest of him remembered why he was like that. Complex PTSD was no joke. It was the same part that reminded him that pointing out they were both technically big birds compared to him would not go over well just now. “Yeah, Dick did talk to me, but to be perfectly honest, I think you both did just fine.” As expected, Jason scowled at him in a manner that made it very clear he considered it nothing but a joke. He wasn’t about to let that feeling sink in. “You have been cooped up in here under constant watch for five weeks now and that would drive anyone a little crazy. You have every right to want some space, Jason. And Dick... well, he is your brother, whether you like it or not. That means he has every right to be worried. But to be perfectly honest, I just got up ten minutes ago and my brain is still in sleep mode, so how about we just go and have breakfast, and if you feel like it, we can talk about it?”

Jason eyed him like a bear would eye a hunter passing by in the distance. “What if I don’t want to talk about it?”

“Then we can still have breakfast.”

The bear continued watching and for a moment, Tim was sure he was about to get eviscerated and left for dead. It was always a possibility. Trauma could do some truly messed up things to people. Then again... given how much Jason had improved from when they had first met, given the ridiculous amount of progress he had made over the last year – most likely without even noticing it himself – he considered it small enough a risk to take.

Eventually, the scowl faded into a sneer. “Fine. But I’ll cook. God knows you guys are fucking hopeless—“

“—in the kitchen,” Tim concluded with a slight grin. “I know when to fold them. After you, Jason.”

***

Breakfast was prepared almost exclusively in silence, though that hardly meant it wasn’t productive and informative. Within less than twenty minutes, Jason had whipped up a kingly buffet of pancakes, omelets, fruit salad and protein-calcium smoothies that had almost definitely come straight out of Alfred’s cook book and would certainly have made the old butler proud had he been there to watch. It looked healthy, plentiful and delicious, and Tim made sure to comment on each of those, even though his mind was anywhere but the food.

The tells were obvious, once he had finally wrapped his head around just how Jason’s mind worked. Bruce had never spoken so much as a single word about him and pulling the overall description of who Jason was as a person from his mourning siblings had been like pulling teeth. The overall consensus had been that Jason had been tough, fierce, dedicated, a genuinely caring person, although also outwardly abrasive, stubborn and cursed with a temper that occasionally overruled good judgment and led to overly-impulsive, going-to-regret-this-in-the-morning decisions. It was a far cry from the picture that Lucius had painted – meticulous and thorough, yet highly creative and blessed with laser focus on the goal at hand. When Tim had eventually voiced his confusion to Alfred, the butler had merely shaken his head. _There was a purpose and a plan to everything Master Todd ever did_ , Alfred had explained to him one night after a particularly uneventful patrol. _What Master Bruce would have called sloppy or rushed, Master Todd would have called a calculated risk._

And, boy, did he ever! Tim watched over little sips from his second cup of coffee as Jason went at the food preparations with a single-minded determination that bordered on obsessive, yet when Tim ‘accidentally’ dropped his spoon, he caught it nonetheless. He watched as Jason wrangled the pans on the stove with just enough force to indicate frustration, but not enough to warrant concern for the utensils, and massacred a kiwifruit with a knife in strikes quick and sharp enough to make Tim worry for his fingers, but not quite enough to try and wrestle the knife from him. There was a rhythm to the chopping, the scraping and the banging of cupboards that broadcasted one message loud and clear – Jason felt hounded. He wanted... he _needed_ space, an escape from all the well-intentioned smothering and an excess of positivity and friendliness that he was not used to. And he had no idea how to express it in a normal, healthy or even just verbal manner.

 _Now, humans are social creatures_ , Dr. Brandt’s voice crawled up from the depths of his PTSD class memories, _and as such, our first instinct upon seeing someone in pain is to walk up to them, to hold them, to communicate with them, to establish a physical and emotional connection that should let them know that we are there to help, that we want to help._ The professor had paused in front of his podium then, waiting for the class to process his words until some brave, poor soul had ventured a hesitant ‘And we shouldn’t?’ Dr. Brandt had looked at her, stone-faced as Batman on his best night, and had simply said: _That, Ms. Carr, depends on whether you would like to either get punched in the face or have your patient recoil in terror. Either one of these is likely to happen. Humans are also superstitious creatures. We fear what we do not know. What emotion do you think true empathy and physical comfort will evoke in someone who does not know what those things are, what they feel like? Fight or flight, my dear._

Even the memory made Tim’s stomach curl into an icy hedgehog that pierced and stabbed no matter how he twisted and turned. Dr. Brandt had continued his lecture then, spending the remaining sixty minutes painting in agonizing, cringe-worthy detail the case of a seven-year-old boy he had once treated, who had grown up in a household with no less than two drug addicts, one pedophile and an older brother who had taken that ‘tonight thank God it’s them instead of you’ line from _Do They Know It’s Christmas_ way too literally. Two students had quietly excused themselves and another four had been in tears by the time he had been done. He had finished the lecture without offering a single piece of advice on how to handle the situation, much less words of comfort or hope. When Tim had visited him in his office later and called him out on it, Dr. Brandt had merely smiled at him.

_See... to you, with your normal, trauma-free socialization, that was cruel and monstrous. To the boy I treated, this kind of emotional abuse was normal, relatable. Do you know what was not normal or relatable to him, but just non-intrusive enough to let his natural curiosity win out over taught mistrust? The fact that I did not follow it up with an equal dose of physical punishment, and the promise that I was still looking forward to talking to him the following week, if he didn’t mind. Imagine his surprise when I actually made good on that promise._

_Calculated risks, huh..._ Tim mulled the thought over in his head as he watched Jason slaughter more tropical vegetables – dragon fruit if he wasn’t mistaken – with a stare intense enough to melt metal. With one last draught, Tim finished his coffee and set the cup down in the sink. “I’ll go and find Alizeé and Mitaine. If I don’t find and feed the little beasts before we have our food, they will terrorize as for the rest of the day.” He was halfway out the door already when he turned around just far enough to glance over his shoulder. “I will be back in ten, but feel free to go ahead without me.”

Of course, the best lies always had a grain of truth to them. The cats would not hate him for the rest of the day if he didn’t feed them first, particularly since they had already been fed by Dick just before the shift switch at six. However, that did not make looking for them a bad idea. The older one had probably curled up with Dick already – the only person in the house she truly seemed to like – but the younger one had taken a liking to Jason, and as far as Tim was aware, the deep, soft purring of a cat was scientifically proven to lower blood pressure and relieve anxiety. It was a match made in heaven.

Naturally, he found her by the fireplace. Curled up and blissfully lost to the world until he bent down to scratch her behind the ears. Judging from the annoyed look in her half-opened eyes as she slowly woke up, he had about ten seconds to give her a good reason not to scratch his eyes out. In this case, said reason was a soft belly massage while he connected his phone to the manor’s security system and brought up the feed from the kitchen camera.

Jason was still filling two plates with food instead of only one, even though the glances he kept stealing at the door to the hall proved that he was not entirely sure there would be breakfast for two. His movements were still fast, but no longer choppy, and his shoulders had gone from tense and guarded to moderately relaxed. Tim watched him set the table and wash the dishes as the minutes quietly ticked away at the clock. Nine minutes into his absence, Jason was looking at the door in what could only be described as quiet, dreading anticipation, interrupted by quick gazes at the empty seat on the other side of the table.

It hurt, sitting there, just a few dozen quick strides away from him, rather than going in immediately, but he could not rush this. He would not. For Jason’s sake. Only when his technically little brother reached for the salt shaker and started seasoning his own omelet did Tim rise from the carpet by the fireplace. The cat protested at being swept up suddenly of course, but he couldn’t have cared less. “Be a good little therapy tool for a few minutes, will you, please?” The cat was having none of it. By the time he had reached the kitchen door, seven pounds of adorable fur were ready to claw off his face. “Damn you, Mitaine—“

He was halfway through the sentence when Jason’s carefully veiled surprise morphed slowly into a little smirk. The J brand warped the expression into something slightly darker than normal, but he pushed the thought down together with all the other memories of his brother’s scars. There was a time and a place, and this was not it. Tim shrugged his shoulders best as he could, while turning the angry sack of fluff and clawed paws in his arms around to face Jason. As predicted, the kitten tried to leap instantly and this time he let her go for good. She crossed the tiled floor in fast little steps, then jumped into his little brother’s lap as if she had always belonged there, mewling softly at the indignity that had been done to her.

“I think she likes you.”

“Or maybe she just really hates _you_ ,” Jason countered.

“My cats _love_ me,” Tim protested as he took his seat by the second plate and picked up his fork and fruit bowl. “I’m the one who buys them food and kitty litter.”

“And takes them to the vet where they get poked, prodded and stabbed with tiny needles.” For a moment, all was quiet while Tim dug through his appetizer and Jason cut up his first pancake, turning and brandishing the knife in his formerly injured hand at every opportunity. It was good practice for rusty fingers, and if Tim had to be honest, he was glad he was doing it with a butter knife rather than a combat blade. When Jason finally spoke again, it was so quiet Tim nearly missed it. “Was startin’ to think I’d have to finish your portion, too.”

That was the plan, Tim nearly blurted out, but he evaded the question quickly with another bite of dragon fruit. He could only blame a lifetime of etiquette training on the fact that he managed to swallow the food before giving him an answer. “I’m not sorry to disappoint you.”

It wasn’t a disappointment. He knew it. And so did Jason.

***

They passed the rest of the morning in silence, alternating between dumbbell exercises and season three of Game of Thrones. Somehow, Jason managed to get through the entire Red Wedding without so much as batting an eyelash, and Tim nearly cringed at the implication. They were all pretty hardened to the horrors of the world, but, damn, that was cold. However, that was the least of his problems.

Jason was good at hiding, both himself, as well as things and facts, but few things ever flew under Tim’s radar. It was little more than a short flinch that gave him away, something Tim would have been happy to ignore.

If it hadn’t been Jason’s left flank.

So far, Alfred had taken care of examining and re-bandaging the wound Croc had given Jason whenever necessary, and by his admission, nothing was wrong. Still, there was no mistaking the way Jason winced on occasion, the way his gaze flicked to the wound every once in a while in sheer annoyance.

“Does it hurt?”

“Huh?”

“Your wound.” Tim put down the dumbbell and pointed at his left side where contours of the wound dressing were almost invisible under the shirt. “You’ve been flinching all day. Is everything ok?” Jason’s eyes narrowed in an instance and if Tim had had anyone to bet with, he would have bet his best camera that he was wondering whether any answer other then ‘all good’ was going to get him side-lined, put under the knife, or – heaven forbid – restricted to his bed once more. “I’m not going to go all mother hen on you, Jason, but if you want to wait with that answer until Dick’s awake, then I’m sure he’ll be happy to play the part.”

Predictably, that earned him a quick glance at the clock on the wall. Five thirty-two. They had less than half an hour to go until Alfred would get here and Tim would wake Barb and Dick to have breakfast. Less than thirty minutes until Dick was going to ask for a full status report and the cat was already half-way out of the bag.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Jason finally admitted, and for once, Tim actually believed him. “Just itches. Started about two days ago. It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

 _Of course you will be..._ Tim rolled his eyes. Like anybody in their strange, strange family was ever going to openly admit the severity of any injury! “You know, I do believe you that it’s not bothering you too much, but since you’re supposed to be getting out of that wheel chair and onto crutches in a week, I’d rather be safe than sorry.” He gave a long look at the clock before turning back to Jason. “How about we do a quick CT and MRI before the others come around? I will make sure Dick won’t find out and I can make a detour on my way back from class on Monday to have Miranda take a look at the images... see if there’s anything out of the ordinary.”

Jason raised an eyebrow at him. “That’s a long detour from Gotham U to here via the Coventry.”

“Option two: I could invite her over for coffee and you can explain the matter to her yourself.”

He had expected the low groan of frustration and the facepalm. He had not expected the slight reddening of his brother’s ears as he mumbled through his fingers. “Dick put you up to this, didn’t he?”

Now, it was Tim’s time to smirk. He got up slowly, rolled his shoulders and got a few quiet cracks in return. “He’d wish! Still: CT and MRI. Let’s go.”

***

Thankfully, Jason had decided not to argue. Even with the top-of-the-line Wayne Tech machines they had installed in the infirmary, they had little enough time as it was. The CT scan came out nice and clear within little more than five minutes, the MRI within sixteen, and Tim filed them both away quickly, just in time for Alfred to arrive at the manor. Normally, this was the point where Tim would have gone ahead and woken the late birds, while Jason and Alfred would have headed for the kitchen to prepare breakfast for them. Instead, Tim took a quick moment to ask Alfred for a word while Jason went ahead to get all ingredients.

“I assume this is not a social call,” Alfred ventured as they stepped aside just outside of the kitchen.

Tim shook his head. “Sadly, no. Although I wish it was. I think we could all benefit from a few hours of just... you know... socializing. Like normal people.” That sounded strange even as the words left his mouth. Since when had their bat-obsessed family ever been ‘normal people’? Still, it did not matter now. There was a far more important task at hand. “I would like you to talk to Jason, one on one, just you and him.”

Alfred’s brow furrowed slightly. “Master Drake, did something happen between you and Master Todd?”

“Between him and Dick. I don’t know the full story,” Tim admitted. He had only asked Dick for a short report after all, and even then there was still the option that he had not been entirely truthful. Somehow Bruce had managed to rub off on each of them eventually, which always made him feel blessed to have Barb. She had not grown up under Bruce’s wing, constantly subjected to his abysmal parenting. “What I do know is that Jason had a bad nightmare, laughing gas themed, and ended up threatening Dick with murder if he didn’t leave the room. Dick spent half his shift sitting in front of Jason’s door, feeling like dirt. Jason probably spent that entire time sitting by the window, smoking and feeling like dirt, and I am too much of a realist to think that I will get a straight answer from him.”

For a moment, Alfred was silent as a rock, clearly mulling this new information over in his mind. Then, his hand slowly moved upwards to rest on Tim’s shoulder. “Leave it to me, Master Drake. I shall have a word with him.”

Tim finally let go of the breath he had been holding as he watched Alfred disappear into the kitchen. It was slightly more difficult to make out the exact words over the sound of chopping and scraping, but then again, the words often mattered less than the tone, and the tone was calm. Alfred was calm. Jason was calm. A conversation was happening. At last, Tim set out to wake his brother and his wife.

_Thank God for Alfred!_


	25. Panta Rhei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is not every day that his nights start with playful revenge only to end in deadly revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aka, the chapter in which new boundaries are established, new twists occur, and everyone goes from happy, to heartbroken, to ok-ish, to "oh fuck".  
> I'm sorry it took me so long to get this one out. Batfam Week has taken over my life for the last two weeks and will probably continue to do so until June 18th. I'll try to stick to one chapter every two weeks for IWGA.
> 
> For more updates, headcanons and any and all questions/messages you might have outside of comments, feel free to visit my tumblr:  
> http://lananiscorner.tumblr.com/

In every multi-million-dollar company there were three branches that nobody should ever piss off: accounting, IT support and catering. Granted, the budget was out of his reach and there was nothing Jason could do to their tech that Barb wouldn’t be able to undo in even less time, but the catering? He could totally fuck with that. Especially since no one was paying any fucking attention.

At the very least, Tim had tried to be subtle about it. He hadn’t called after Alfred, he hadn’t asked Jason to go ahead while he talked to Alfie for a minute. No, he had only very sneakily taken Alfred aside before he had even set foot on the tiled kitchen floor. Jason scowled at the memory of the sudden change. He hadn’t seen Alfred fall behind. He hadn’t heard him stop in front of the doorway. More than anything else, he had _felt_ his absence, a nagging, subconscious, ominous feeling in his gut that had sent red letters floating through his brain.

 _SOMETHING’S OFF. BE ALERT. BE VERY FUCKING ALERT_.

Well, he had been alert for two minutes and twenty-six seconds now and that was long enough to formulate a plan. A plan based on countless little observations that his brain had filed away in some dark little cabinet for potential future use, and the future was now.

Tim hated cumin and anything spicy. “ _I’m a man, not a dragon,_ ” Robin had jokingly exclaimed once, just after he had taken a tentative, regret-filled sip from one of Alfred’s jalapeno-peppered Tahini milk shakes. _“I prefer my smoothies green, rather than red.”_

Well, Jason was going to give him the greenest smoothie of his life: avocado and soy milk with lots of fat to conceal the capsicum until it was well down his throat, and one entire, good old Indian green pepper. _Good fucking riddance._

And Dick... Dick, the goddamn idiot who had started all of this... he was the pickiest eater that had ever pecked and Jason frowned at the memories of the last time Alfred had left the dinner choices to Dick. No greens. Carrots were ok, but only if not cooked. Meat should not be bloody or even red on the inside, but not too hard either. Fish is ok, but god help you if there was a single fucking grate in it. Salt was an agent of the devil and anything that had a texture even remotely resembling gelatin had to stay ten feet away from him. Sugar was a blessed heaven and anything that so much as reminded him of ground coconut – _“It feels like eating sawdust,”_ Jason could remember him whine at one point – was sure to make him put on the sad, big, why-did-you-do-this-to-me puppy dog eyes.

Jason made sure to put two extra spoons of chia into the coconut milk – it was now gelatinous sawdust – before adding another layer of lighter, fresh milk doused in cocoa and sugar. Knowing Dick, he’d take one look at the chocolate, then down the entire fucking thing in one take, only to realize his mistake too late. It was perfect.

He was just about ready to finish Barb’s almond-raspberry shake – _she_ hadn’t done anything to him, so _she_ was going to get exactly what she liked – when Alfred finally joined him by the kitchen counter.

“Preparing smoothies for the entire family, Master Todd?”

“Just spreading the love, Alfie,” Jason explained calmly as he finished Barb’s extra-large glass and started preparing a Tahini-cardamom shake for Alfred. Bruce had always been very traditional about his food choices. Alfred’s joy and disbelief when Jason had picked his foodstuffs on the basis of ‘it looks good, so I’m gonna eat it’ had been downright surreal. “Got an avocado shake for Tim, chocolate shake for Dick...” He eyed the selection of exotic fruits currently resting in a wire mesh basket that hung from the ceiling next to the fridge with critical glances, but ultimately decided against it. “Wish we had pomegranates. I could make a mean silken tofu smoothie with those.”

“Pomegranates always were your favorite,” Alfred confirmed as he started breaking eggs and chopping onions for fresh vegetable omelets. “However, I did acquire pumpkin seeds, apple puree and maple syrup. With a dash of cinnamon it would make for a rather delicious sugar rush.”

It did sound great, and Jason nodded absently as he gathered the ingredients from around the kitchen – thankfully Alfred had re-arranged everything soon after Christmas, so now the kitchen was stocked almost exactly like it had been in the old days – and put some oil in a fresh pan to roast the seeds. Perhaps there was a chance this night was not going to end in a complete disaster after all.

They worked in silence for a few more minutes, Jason filling up cups and glasses with the various drinks and putting on fresh coffee for the hungry – and loud – mouths that were starting to descend to the first floor. Dick’s bright voice echoed through the halls of the manor like a birdsong through a cage, albeit with a clearly worried undertone. Tim’s subdued flow of words was almost negligible by comparison. With a deep sigh, Jason braced himself for the inevitable as the voices got closer.

Dick was the first to enter and whatever expression had been on his face just the moment before vanished as he crossed the door step. Jason had to give him credit – he was making it damn near impossible to read any kind of emotion off of him. Still, the fact that it took him almost a full eight seconds before drawing his lips into a smile and opening his mouth was proof enough that not all was well in Drake Manor.

“Morning, Alfred. Hey, Jason! Doing okay?”

“Just peachy,” Jason lobbed back at him over a frown as he filled their cups with fresh coffee, before adding milk and sugar. The addition had always baffled him, but at least Tim and Barb kept it to a reasonable level. Dick on the other hand practically poisoned his cup with a double dose of sugar as soon as he got it, and Jason couldn’t help wincing. _The poor coffee..._

“Chocolate shake!” Suddenly, Dick’s awakeness level was over nine-thousand and Barb winced as the sound assaulted her ears. Tim shook his head over deep gulps from his own cup, then reached for the coffee can to refill.

“Pipe down, Dick. They are Jason’s, not yours. If you’re so keen on having some, ask Alfred nicely.”

“Actually,” Alfred interjected as he started aligning plates, cutlery and a fresh heap of omelets on a serving tray, “Master Jason prepared these for the three of you.”

Dick’s smile faltered for all of a second, before returning in full bloom. “Seriously? Jay, that’s... wow.” His feet edged forward almost at the same time Jason edged backwards. Dick froze within an instant, his face falling as the enthusiasm all but leeched out of him. Somehow, a hint of the smile still remained. “That’s so sweet of you, Jaybird. Thanks.”

Tim, who had successfully drained his second cup of coffee and was going for the third with a determination that bordered on single-minded, was obviously not feeling the love. “What did you do, Jason?”

“Excuse me?” Somehow, the hurt whine came a lot easier than it should have. “I get put through fifteen months of food poisoning by the fucking evil clown himself and you think I’m gonna poison your drinks? What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“Boys!” At last, the last few hazy bits of fatigue had cleared from Barbara’s face. Her voice was steel wrapped in double-layers of silk. “It’s ten past six in the _evening_. Let’s save the shouting matches for the morning, shall we?” He watched quietly as she handed the shakes to Alfred one by one to put on the tray. “And let’s not have this conversation in the kitchen, okay? Living room’s much cozier.”

With a low grumble, Dick sunk his face back into his cup of sugar with caffeine on the side and shambled off into the direction of the main living room. If there was one person in the manor who had been even less of a morning person than Jason, it was Dick. It almost made him feel guilty.

But only almost.

Barbara was sharp on his heels, dragging Tim along with her despite his very obvious desire to stay behind and needle him with questions. Jason frowned over his own cup as he watched Barb herd her boys out of the kitchen and across the hall to the living room. The replacement always had been too smart for his own damn good.

“Will I need to add painkillers to the menu, Master Todd?”

Jason eyed the old butler carefully. If he hadn’t been entirely mistaken, there had been a hint of amusement, but also the sharp stab of rebuke in his calm voice. “No.” He frowned as he reached for the bread basket on the counter next to the fridge and added it to the tray. Bread was an excellent pallet cleanser. “But you might want to take this.”

***

By the time Nightwing and Robin left the premises on their motorcycles, escaping from the manor like two bats out of hell, Jason had already buried himself in his laptop’s remote connection to the Batcomputer. It looked to be another quiet night. GCPD dispatch was remarkably quiet. There were numerous open casefiles yet to be investigated – both on Nightwing’s side and on Robin’s – but most of them were not likely to go anywhere unless they received fresh intel. Ghost was already out and about and – judging from the raspy sound of his voice as perceived through Oracle’s comms – still recovering from Joker’s gas. Jason scowled as he opened a private chat window with Barb.

_Tell him to go home. His lungs need a week of rest, at least, or he’ll only make it worse. Those scars can be permanent._

Oracle’s reply was as short as it was telling.

_I already did. It’s just chili peppers and coconut to him._

“Well, here we go...” It was only a matter of time now. He knew that much. Any minute now, Barbara was going to unleash a stream of carefully prepared sermons upon him, outlining in a detailed, ten-page essay exactly why what he had done had been wrong, childish, hurtful and very definitely not funny. Jason took a swig from the bottle of red wine he had nicked from the kitchen while Alfred had been busy talking to Tim and started digging into his first casefile. It was one of Nightwing’s. Drug smuggling op. Mostly venom. Lots of dollars. Some ties to city officials. He had been searching for a way to disrupt the entire operation – preferably by establishing a firm chain of evidence between the officials and the smugglers – when he had gotten side-tracked by more important, more urgent matters. Serial killers. A bunch of crazy meta-humans that had trashed the north of Blüd for a night, allegedly trying to chase down a criminal of their own. A power-hungry wizard who was turning innocent people into mindless, reptilian servants to conquer the world one step at a time. Starting with Blüdhaven of all places.

Jason frowned into his coffee. “Fuck, Dick, you just had to pick the weirdest city on the east coast, didn’t you?”

“I believe a certain tendency to ignore perfectly healthy survival instincts runs in the family, Master Todd.”

He watched out of the corner of his eye as Alfred circled him and the heavy oaken table in the upstairs drawing room, and set the tray down in its middle. Soon, a plate filled with vegetable omelets appeared to his left, followed by a carefully wrapped knife and fork, and a glass of pumpkin protein shake to his right.

“You forgot your breakfast, Master Todd.”

“I didn’t forget anything.”

“I feared as much.”

At the sound of cutlery scraping softly across fine porcelain, Jason’s fingers froze above the keyboard. He flipped the screen closed and squinted at the sight in front of him. Alfred, for his part, seemed completely unperturbed by his mannerisms as he started to quietly consume his own omelet. The napkin folded neatly next to his plate was only icing on the cake.

“I’d have thought you would have eaten with the others.”

Alfred swallowed quickly before raising his eyes to meet him. “And have you sit here in the dark, all by yourself, with an empty stomach? I think not, my dear boy.” He took another bite, chewed, swallowed, and finally gestured towards Jason’s own set. “Please, Master Todd. I can assure you there are no ingredients in your food that you did not ask for.”

“Of course not,” Jason grumbled as he took up his fork and started picking at the omelet. It did look delicious, even in the half-light of the drawing room. “Wouldn’t be like anybody else to spike people’s food.”

“It is not very much like you either,” Alfred argued. “Why did you do it?”

“Why?” That stumped him. He had expected a sermon, a lecture, even just a rant – although maybe not from Alfred – but why the hell would anybody care _why_? He had done it. End of story. “Why do you fucking care?”

“Language, Jason Peter Todd.”

Despite the lack of hostility in the sentence, Jason felt himself flinch. “Sorry.” His eyes switched between the plate and the butler quickly. He had a choice between food he didn’t want and a conversation he didn’t want. This evening was going just—

_Food I don’t want._

The laughter came suddenly, pouncing from the depths of his lungs like a tiger waiting in high grass. His ribs no longer hurt at the sudden movement. Instead, his lungs were on fire once more, searing and scraping as the scarred tissue worked overtime to keep supplying him with oxygen. He reached for the smoothie almost automatically and downed the entire glass in one long chug. Somehow, the enforced breathing break actually worked, reducing his bellowing laughter down to a slight giggle.

“Sorry, Alfie...” The concern was obvious in Alfred’s face, but he couldn’t linger on that. As a matter of fact, he found his mind couldn’t really linger on anything. “It’s just... you know something’s seriously wrong with me, if I’m turning down _free food_. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“You did not mean to be cruel to your brothers, either, did you, Master Todd?”

Jason scowled. It was once again evidently clear to him who Bruce had gotten his vicious, thick-headed, relentless stubbornness from. “What if I did?”

“As I thought,” Alfred replied, before turning once more to his omelet, alternating between small bites and single sentences. “Please, do try the omelet, Master Todd. Your body is still healing. You need protein- and calcium-rich sustenance.”

“What if I did, Alfred?”

“I would wonder what happened between you and Masters Grayson and Drake last night, to bring about such an unexpected and sad turn of events. The three of you seemed to have grown so close to each other over the last five weeks.”

“Tim already told you.” At last, Jason managed to steer some of the omelet from his plate to his mouth. He was sure it tasted amazing, like everything Alfred always cooked, but right now, the food was ashes in his mouth. “I know the two of you talked. And Dick doesn’t know how to shut up either. I’m sure he was babbling all throughout breakfast.”

“Very astute, Master Todd.” Another two bites and Alfred’s omelet was gone. He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin shortly, before folding the cloth neatly and putting it aside. “That is precisely why I am asking you now, Master Todd. I have heard two out of three accounts already. I would very much like to hear the third before I pass my judgment.”

 _Judgment..._ Jason winced inwardly at the idea. He wasn’t sure he could deal with a disappointed or angry Alfred. He never could before. Not even back then... “Alfie, please...”

 _Oh, Jason, you pathetic whiner..._ From the darkest corners of his mind, the Knight reared his ugly head, laughing at him together with a face of bleached white and the voice of a hyena. _Can’t even face an old man over a prank._ _How pathetic._

Jason cringed. “Forget about it. Whatever Dick and Tim told you is good enough.”

“Master Todd...” Suddenly, the old butler was next to him, with his chair and all, prying the fork and knife from his cold, sweaty fingers. “I assure you: your opinion, your account of recent events, is no less important or valid to me than Master Grayson’s and Master Drake’s.”

He knew he should have looked at him, at Alfred. It was rude not to look at people who were talking to you. Yet somehow, all he could see was the knife. “So you trust me with the truth, but you don’t trust me with a blade?” Suddenly, the anger was red hot inside of him. It felt as if someone had dislodged a tiny ball of snow from atop a mountain and it was gaining volume and speed with each yard travelled. Except the snowball was on fire and it was inside of him, rolling up his vocal chords and onto his tongue.

“That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? That’s why you’re all keeping me caged up here, under twenty-four/seven surveillance, and god help us if I even so much as look at a knife or a razor or some fucking scissors! Because you can’t even freaking trust me not to stab myself in the throat or try to cut off half my face when nobody’s looking! Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I don’t _know_ , I don’t _SEE,_ what’s going on here? I’m fucking tired of it, Alfred! I am tired of you, of Tim, of Barb, and I’m tired of Dick, that fucking human octopus!”

The pressure was gone just as quickly as it had come, and it left him feeling hollowed out and exhausted. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he blinked and swallowed them away carefully before turning his face upwards once more. Perhaps it was selfish. Perhaps he was whining, but he had put up with this crap for five weeks now and the Arkham Knight could kiss his ass. “I am _tired_ , Alfred. I’m tired, but I can’t sleep here. I want to go _home_. I just want to go home...”

“My dear boy...” Alfred’s arms circled around him slowly, carefully, putting zero pressure on him even as his hand started stroking through Jason’s hair. “There is nothing wrong with feeling that way, Master Todd. Nothing at all.” He lingered for a few more precious seconds, before pulling back once more and cupping Jason’s face in his hands. “Next time, please just say so and we will try to accommodate you as much as reasonably possible.”

“Reasonably possible?” Jason raised an eyebrow. Alfred mirrored the gesture perfectly.

“Master Todd, you _did_ try to cut half your face off and you _did_ try to slit your own throat only three weeks ago. To say that we are _all_ deeply concerned for your physical and emotional well-being would be an understatement.”

“Bruce isn’t,” Jason muttered bitterly. He didn’t even know why his mind decided to bring that up, now of all times. “I’d probably be doing him a favor.”

He knew he had misstepped the instance Alfred’s face darkened. “Master Bruce has been worried sick about you,” Alfred corrected him in the firmest, yet gentlest voice he could muster. “He inquires about you every morning. The only reason he has not been coming here to try to see you in person is that your brothers and your sister-in-law made the consequences of such an action very clear to him. You may recall that that was the entire point behind this turn-taking vigil: to keep your father away from you until both of you are ready to talk to one another like two civilized, grown-up men.” The slightest hint of a smile crept across Alfred’s lips. “And if it is not too bold to say: I believe you are both not quite there yet. However, I do respect your wish for privacy, just as I respect Master Bruce’s wish for information on your well-being, so I would be very happy, if we could negotiate some sort of compromise.”

“A deal?” Jason eyed him warily. Somehow, he was pretty damn sure he was in no state of mind to negotiate anything.

“A deal,” Alfred confirmed, before running one hand gently along Jason’s right temple and cheek. It made the scalp underneath his overly long hair tickle and the skin under his slight stubble itch. “If you do so wish, I believe your siblings might be swayed to let you have some more space to yourself. No more constant watch within your immediate vicinity, for starters.”

“Can I have a razor and a pair of scissors?”

“Doubtful,” the old butler admitted, “but I would be happy to cut your hair for you, if it bothers you so much, and let you shave yourself, provided I will be there to intervene if necessary.”

 _‘If you try to kill yourself again’_ , Jason thought glumly. Damn him for having had a panic attack in front of pretty much everyone. They were never going to let him live this down. “Alright, so that’s your side of the deal,” he finally concluded. “Let’s just assume for now the others will agree...”

He wasn’t so sure about that. Tim would probably find it reasonable. Barb might frown, might even install some more hidden cameras in his room – he was sure there were at least two or three already – and potentially stick some bio-tracker on him, but it wasn’t her he was worried about.

_Dick is not going to like this._

It was the understatement of the year.

“Even assuming they will, what’s my part?”

Alfred took his hand and patted it gently. “Your part, Master Todd, is that, from now on, you will do your utmost to be upfront and honest with your siblings about any issues that might affect you or them. You do not have to tell them every gritty little detail,” Alfred quickly interjected at the sight of his involuntary flinch, “but I will expect you to inform us, if something troubles you deeply. We are here to help you, Master Todd, but we cannot do so unless you let us know when you _need_ help. Also, as a sign of good faith, you will apologize to your brothers upon their return to the manor.”

“Right...” Jason nodded slowly as he cast a glance at his abandoned breakfast. “I _did_ spike their drinks...”

“Actually, I was referring to the fight you had with Master Grayson, and your consequent argument with Master Drake,” Alfred explained, “but if you could find it in your heart to apologize for both, that would make me very happy indeed. Do we have a deal?”

 _Do we?_ Jason eyed him carefully. An Alfred promise was worth the manor in gold, but he had come up with these terms without _any_ input of the others. There was no guarantee that they would agree, much less that any of this would work out as planned.

 _Like jumping off a skyscraper with only a grapnel gun_ , not-Robin mused, and Jason rolled his eyes at the implication. The irony of all of this wasn’t lost on him. He was temperamental, not stupid.

“If Barb, Dick and Tim agree...”

“I’m sure they will, Master Todd.” Another pat on the hand, another quick ruffle through his hair. Suddenly, the knife and fork were back in his fingers. Alfred stood up, straightened out his jacket, and flashed him a quick smile. “Now, please finish your lunch, Master Todd. I shall go and find some scissors.”

***

True to his word, Alfred returned just two minutes later, with a pair of long barber’s scissors and a razor in hand. Jason pushed down the memories that were trying to worm their way back to the surface as he wolfed down his food. It wasn’t poisoned. It wasn’t spiked. It wasn’t even laced with anything uncomfortable, but still his stomach kept doing back flips. With one last angry look at the now empty plate on the table, Jason set out to follow Alfred to the en-suite bathroom of his current bedroom.

He started with the razor, working methodically yet quickly as Alfred watched, quietly humming some silly little melody that Jason could not have put a rhyme to, even if his life had depended on it. The blades of the razor felt cold as ice against his skin, but he pushed that memory down too. He could not mess this up. If he were to cut himself, even just by accident, that deal was likely to be off the table faster than he could say ‘I didn’t mean to’. He rinsed his face with hot water when he was done and scowled at the sight that greeted him.

Against the flush of his freshly shaven jaw line and the dark, shaggy mess that was his hair, the brand stood out in unnatural brightness.

He chucked the razor into the nearly empty bin and drew a deep breath. “Let’s get to it then.”

“Right you are, sir.” Alfred worked with a precision and swiftness that never ceased to amaze him, just as he had done when Jason had first arrived at the manor. He had been a shaggy mess back then, too, yet somehow he had ended up looking halfway presentable.

Alfred really could work miracles.

“How short would you like your hair, Master Jason?” Alfred gave him a quizzical nod while brushing out his hair and parting it in a straight line that started above his left eye.

Jason scoffed at the question while pinning a towel around his shoulders to catch the soon to be discarded hair. “Shorter than Dick, longer than Tim. Definitely longer than Tim. And even throughout. None of that undercut crap Dick has going on.”

That drew a quick smile from Alfred. “A simple one-inch, even cut then.” Two seconds later, the butler’s steady hands started chopping away the long tresses and Jason gritted his teeth against the sound of shearing metal. This was absolutely, one-hundred percent safe. It was Alfred after all. He thought back to the many hours spent training with Bruce and Dick, learning not to flinch at batarangs or bullets flying just past his ears. Jason closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. If he could handle that, he could damn well handle a pair of scissors.

They were done with all but the very front of his fringe when Alfred suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. Jason could feel his fingers move gently along the spot where the parting line started and that too brought up memories. Jason scowled. “Don’t even _try_ to tell me that I’ve got lice. I’ve been washing this unruly mop every other day ever since you guys let me out of bed.”

Alfred gave him a slight chuckle in return. “No, Master Todd. No lice this time. I agree that would have been very surprising. However, it is the base of your hair I am worried about.”

“Why?”

“It is growing out white, and not in individual strands like hair normally would with age, but as an entire patch.”

Now that _was_ curious. Jason gave another sigh as he opened his eyes and parted the offending streaks, careful not to spread his shorn off waves of coal black everywhere. Alfred was right. There was an entire patch on his hairline, a little more than an inch in diameter, that was starting to grow out into a shining titanium white. The sight almost made him want to laugh. “Figures. Even my hair can’t make it to twenty-five.”

“Master Todd—“

“I wonder what triggered it.” He leaned back again and closed his eyes once more. “You’d think that with all the crap that’s happened to me, trauma-induced melanin-deficiency would have come a lot sooner.”

“Perhaps it is a result of the worrying mix of hazardous chemicals you were exposed to five weeks ago,” Alfred ventured. “There is about half an inch of it.”

“It would make sense time-wise then,” Jason agreed. Either way, it did not matter. He already had a fucking letter-shaped branding scar right there on his cheek. One more uniquely identifying mark would hardly make a difference. Especially not with the helmet. He spared the patch one last fleeting glance, then shut his eyes to let Alfred finish his work.

***

By the time they were done and he had successfully removed the last few errant strands from his own head, his clothes and the bathroom floor, Jason felt fatigue creep into his body once more. Part of him hated the fact that he was so weak, and was nothing short off stunned at the sheer scale of his exhaustion, given that he had only been awake for eleven hours.

 _You had all of four hours of sleep over the last two days_ , not-Robin chided. _Cut yourself a break_.

 _Excuses. Excuses, excuses, excuses_. Jason shook his head as he headed for the coffee machine in the drawing room once more. He had had longer nights before and probably would have a lot more in the future. This was nothing that a black cup of caffeine or two could not fix.

He picked up the casefile where he had left off, tracing shipments of venom through a city that he was not nearly familiar enough with to compensate for the sorry state of its CCTV grid. He started with the docks, where the latest suspicious shipment had arrived, and tailed the truck that took over its cargo through dark roads and grainy footage all the way back to the Spine, where it scuttled through nearly grid-locked traffic like a mouse crawling through a nest of snakes. Where Blüdhaven’s side streets and alleys were shady at best, the Spine was glowing almost blindingly bright with a thousand neon store front lights and gigantic advertisement screens every twenty yards. Halfway down the avenue, the truck veered off to the right, only to disappear once more into the dirty, black grime of Blüdhaven’s old whaling harbors.

“What the fuck...” He raised an eyebrow as he started filtering through nearby cameras. The whaling harbors had never been heavy on CCTVV coverage, but what little there was reported back either static or empty pictures. “Son of a bitch!”

“Trouble?” To his credit, Dick sounded only mildly worried, although Jason guessed that was more due to the fact that he seemed to be in the middle of an exercise in stealth. His voice barely amounted to more than a whisper.

“Trying to track that last venom shipment,” Jason explained as he fast forwarded all available footage, skimming each video for clues in a three-by-three grid. “Your cities CCTV system sucks ass.”

“Yeah, we don’t have the Wayne Enterprises billions around here,” Dick muttered over the sound of nearby shouting. For a moment, the line was eerily quiet, almost as if he was contemplating whether or not to continue with the conversation. “Don’t worry too much about it. I’ve got a big drug deal going on right here. Almost certainly related. Trust me: we have better chances getting info out of these guys than out of the video footage.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Jason scowled over his second cup of coffee and he could only hope that the gesture somehow registered through the comms line. “Sit around and twiddle my thumbs while you have all the fun?”

“You could hack into BPD’s comms and give me a heads up before they get here,” Dick suggested. If the tension in his voice was anything to go by, he was getting ready to pounce. “I don’t want to get stuck in here fighting two dozen of my former colleagues with guns.”

Naturally, Dick pounced before he had any chance to reply. Jason shook his head, then brought up the city-wide radio frequency scan and split the audio to have the police scanner in his right ear and Dick’s comms unit in his left. Of the two dozen frequencies used by the BPD – five of them being laughably encrypted – only half were currently busy and he made sure to stay on each one just long enough to verify if they had caught wind of Nightwing’s appearance. Dick himself was having the time of his life, apparently, snarking and wise-cracking at every thug that got within arms reach, followed by a convincing dose of ‘oops, I broke your bones’. Shots were fired, only to be followed by the sharp and sudden buzz of electrified escrima sticks and even more puns and jokes. By the time it was over, all that was left was the sound of Dick’s heavy panting.

“Well, that was quite a workout!”

“It was...” He double-checked the clock just to be sure. “Not even ten minutes. I could do that in my sleep.”

“Not for another three weeks,” Dick argued. “Not on my watch.”

 _Well, it’s not going to be your watch for much longer_ , Jason wanted to argue, but he bit back the remark together with the sudden stab of anger. The only thing to be gained from arguing with Dick now was a long, heated discussion that would definitely not help Alfred’s efforts to convince Barb, Tim and Dick of that shaky truce they had struck earlier.

A low groan sounded in the background and just like that, Nightwing was back to being all business. “One of these geniuses is coming around. Gimme two minutes, Red. I’ll get back to you.”

The line went mute almost instantly and Jason shook his head. “With the right skill set, you could have your answers in half of one.” Of course, the right skill set, if he were to explain it to Dick, would just be another thing for him to rage over. Through his right ear, the monotony of a slow night on the police frequencies did nothing to help his frustration. He patched the radio scanner into his left ear as well and started going through the frequencies from the lowest upwards out of sheer boredom, only to nearly choke on his coffee.

“—lp me! – some—he—me –ease!”

He hadn’t expecting finding much of anything, other than some amateur radio channel perhaps. He certainly hadn’t expected this. Despite of the clutter of noise on what was definitely one of the worst connections he had ever had, the terror was clear in the woman’s voice. As was the sound of pained breathing distorting what was probably a very high, clear voice into a deep rasping sound of terror.

If it was a prank, it was a bad one. Still, his fingers raced across the keyboard, linking his own audio input into the scanner and setting it to the same frequency.

“Is someone there?”

“—ank god! y—tta help m—“ The woman coughed, followed by a short, agonized whine. Perhaps it was not a blessing that he had finally gotten the frequency down perfect to a T. This was very definitely _not_ a prank. There was no mistaking true terror in someone’s voice. Jason knew. He had been there himself for more than a year. The fact that there was something distantly familiar about her voice that he couldn’t quite pinpoint did not make it any better. “He’s gonna kill me if he finds me. Please, help me!”

“Hang in there, lady. I’m trying to locate your position.” It wasn’t as easy as he made it sound. Tuning into the radio frequencies using Oracle’s super machine? Candy from a baby. Cracking an encoded broadcasted? Child’s play. Hacking into two separate directional antennas in an entirely different city so he could measure signal strength and pinpoint the broadcast’s origin without anybody noticing? Very definitely not easy.

“Please don’t hang up...” There were tears in her voice now. “I can hear waves, I think, if that helps.” Tears and desperation. “Waves and sea gulls all the doors are heavy steel and this place is a maze and dear god please help me!”

“I’m on it, I promise.” _But that’s about all I can do_ , Jason thought glumly as he brought the first antenna in position. Judging from her run-on sentences and her labored breathing, she was either close to hyperventilating or going into shock. Or both. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“What?”

“What is your name?”

“Frances.”

“Frances...” The second transmitter came online at just about the same time as Dick’s comms returned. Jason cursed under his breath as he ditched the BPD scanner in favor of Nightwing’s signal. “Hang on for just a second, Frances. I’ll be right back.” He switched the mute statuses on both channels and growled right over Dick’s cheerful greeting. Great to know that at least one of them was having a good time for now. “Not now, Dick. Stumbled onto a distress call on a rogue frequency. Switch to 24.65 FM, if you want in, but stay out of my way.” With another quick tap, his microphone switched again. “I’m here, Frances. You ok?”

“Please don’t leave me again!”

“I won’t.” On his laptop’s screen, the two antennas were finally both online. She had been right. The signal came from an old, derelict container yard on the North Docks. “I’ve got your position, Frances. Calling 911 now—“

“NO!!!” The shout had been so loud it had actually triggered a decibel warning from his audio software, and Jason cringed at the slight ringing it left in his ears. It felt too damn familiar. “They’ll think I’m making this up. They’ll think I went with him on purpose! Willingly!” She spat the word out as if it were poison, before falling back into a string of tears and whispered pleas.

“It’s ok, Frances,” Dick’s soothing voice suddenly filtered through the frequency as he patched into the broadcast. “Nightwing here. I’ve got your coordinates. I’m on my way. You’ll be okay.”

That seemed to calm her down, even if only a little, and Jason couldn’t really blame her. Dick was a natural at calming down terrified victims – so long as he did not know them personally. He had a solid reputation, a near perfect vigilante track record, and a voice made for calming and soothing. That too was oddly familiar.

It was the sound of a single gunshot – a revolver, if Jason wasn’t mistaken – that broke the semblance of peace within an instant, followed by a scraping, skittering sound and rapidly muttered denial that rose in pitch but fell in intensity with every passing millisecond. He could imagine what had happened. Someone had taken a shot at her. She had dropped the radio. The device was out of her reach now. In the background, quick footsteps skipped over metal at a familiar pace that froze every muscle in his body. Through the background noise of the radio, the voice of his nightmares crawled back through Jason’s ears and into his brain, where it mingled with the endless laughter.

“Not even out for a day yet and already cheating on me?! You disappoint me, _Harley!_ ”


	26. What People Are In The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confronted with Joker, Dick makes a choice that leaves Bruce fuming and Jason perplexed. In the meantime, Tim decides to question "Frances" to find a definite answer to the question: "Is Joker really dead?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear spirits, it's been ages since I updated! I apologize that this took me so long to write and publish, what with Batfam Week and prompts and just... real life being real life. I hope you all enjoy the new chapter.
> 
> Also, happy Tim Drake day!
> 
> For more info on my stories, updates, background info and discussions and just general shenanigans, feel free to visit my blog:  
> http://lananiscorner.tumblr.com/

„Red, are you okay?“

The comms were silent. Dick bit his lip. This was not good. He counted to ten as he approached the north docks, cowl vision switched on, sticking to the shadows.

“Red, do you hear me?”

The container yard had been empty for almost a year and it was certainly empty now. Empty except for two life signs in control tower 3. He grappled and jumped from crane to crane, from container to container, approaching as fast and as carefully as he could. What with half his mind on the comms line with the pained female breathing and the screeching male laughter, and the other on the comms line with the static silence.

The last time he had heard that silence, Dick had been combing through Gotham, building by building, desperation growing steadily with every negative result. It didn’t feel any better now. As a matter of fact, it brought back painful memories that cut into his heart and gnawed on his conscience. He tried to tell himself that Jason was fine now, absolutely fine and safe, in the manor, together with Alfred and Barbara, and that nothing could possibly happen to him there, but then again, that’s exactly where he had been on New Year’s Eve. And, oh, how wonderful that had turned out.

With a quick flip, Nightwing perched on the crane closest to the tower. This was as far as he could go without shutting up. He needed an answer and he needed it now.

“Jason—“

“Field names, Nightwing!”

“There you are!” The laugh sounded slightly hysterical, but mostly he just felt relief. “Keep an ear on that BPD broadcast – I’m going in.”

“Nightwing, what the—“

Whatever Jason had said was swallowed by the sound of a bursting grate as he climbed into the tower. He could see the skeletal outlines three stories below, in the bowels of the tower, and what he saw was not good. One of them was broken and cowering, the other one advancing, raising up and swinging down their arms as if wielding a club. One was calm as a meditating guru, the other was terrified. Through the other receiver, the one that was tuned into the radio frequency, high shrieks of pain pierced his ear. He had to hurry.

He dropped into the comms room through the nearby elevator shaft, landing steadily on both feet. The escrima sticks were out and lit up in a second, while his eyes scanned the room for a quick assessment.

The woman – Frances, Harley, whoever she was – was lying on the metal grating of the floor, breathing heavily through broken ribs. The man – _dear God, he really does look like him_ – stood in front of her, blood-trenched crowbar raised high for another strike.

He went in for a low sweep, turning and twisting just in time as the crowbar came down where his torso should have been. Dick rolled and braced, using his momentum to vault up between Joker – or his very convincing imitation – and his prey. The blood-red grin was stretched wide across the porcelain face as the clown turned around to face him.

“Well, well, what have we here? Baby Bats!”

Dick lunged forward once more, striking quickly with the sticks, only to be met blow for blow by cold, unforgiving metal. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Joker could be like that. That he could be so fast, so skilled. Dick clenched his teeth and kept up the pressure. He was not going to lose here and he was not going to go home empty-handed. He would get answers tonight.

“Why so serious, Nightfling?” The gas grenade went off with a quiet hiss, leaving them both in a cloud of green vapor. Dick flipped backwards, careful to stay out of range as unhinged laughter flooded the room. “Oh, you bats are adorable! Eleven years and you still can’t take this stuff!”

Joker was laughing of course. Dick clenched his fingers a little tighter around the sticks. He would wipe that disgusting smile off his face soon enough. He kicked the snare trap Joker flung at him off the walkway quickly and vaulted in for another strike as soon as the gas cleared. His first blow was blocked. His second was not. He struck hard and felt a smirk curl his lips as the sticks connected with a sickening crunch. Part of him was looking forward to seeing how well Joker would swing that crowbar with two broken ribs. The rest of him knew that now was not the time for gloating. Now was the time to remain calm and finish the job. With a quick breath, Dick forced his emotions back down and focused on the task at hand.

He ducked low and came up into a high kick, planting his boots right in that overlong chin and breaking out two teeth. The crowbar swung for his head again, but he caught it between his sticks and twisted sharply, flinging the metal rod off the platform and down the stairs where it came to rest after a series of metallic clinks. He evaded the left hook aimed for his head with a quick sway to the side, grabbed the arm in front of his face, and used Joker’s momentum to redirect his face straight into the nearest console, before giving the arm a good twist. The bone snapped with a loud crunch.

Joker laughed.

“Congratulations, Nightbrat! You’re a hoot, you know that?”

“Save your breath for someone who cares!”

He gave the face one last hard push into the console, before ziptying Joker’s wrists behind his back and shoving him to the ground. He wasn’t worth the effort. Not when someone was lying on the other end of the room, bleeding badly and wheezing in pain.

Her injuries were bad. One of her legs had been broken, as had been both her arms. Her ribs were a jigsaw puzzle. Her jaw and skull showed fissures. He turned off his cowl vision, brushed aside the blood-coated, blonde strands of hair, and felt his hand freeze.

It was her. It really was Harley freaking Quinn. _What the hell were you doing running from the Joker? Where’s the joke? Where’s the trap?_ In the depths of his gut, dread started to bubble up slowly. Something was seriously wrong here. He was just waiting for the hammer to drop.

Behind his back, Joker laughed through a mouthful of blood. “You know, after all these years, I really would have thought you bats had learned to be faster than this!”

“Zip it, Joker!” Dick took a deep breath and activated the automatic 911 protocol of his gauntlets. He gave them the address, the severity of her injuries, and notice of the restrained Joker, then hung up.

“I’d chalk it up to her not being part of the family, but then again that didn’t stop you guys from blundering around for months last time.”

“I said zip it!” He stood up slowly, balling his hands into fists once more. _Push it down, Nightwing. He’s just trying to rile you up._

“Have to give you credit, though.” The grin was in Joker’s voice, just as clear as it most likely was on his face. “You are such an improvement compared to the Boy Blunder. Well, the previous one that is. You know... the one I killed.”

“Shut up!”

Dick whirled around quickly, kicking him hard across the face once, then lifting him up by the lapels even as the logical parts of his mind protested. He had alerted 911. He had restrained the perp. There was nothing more for him to do. His job was done. He should leave.

Except he couldn’t. His hands were frozen around Joker’s suit, just as the grin was frozen on Joker’s face. Six years and it was all still a goddamn joke to him.

“He was such a whiner, you know,” Joker cackled. “Always complaining. Always whining... Lovely screaming voice, though...” His fist moved automatically, landing straight in the white cheek bone. Joker laughed. “Best part was shooting him though. That delightful sound of a bullet ripping through that shiny, red suit, breaking through the bones and—“

“Shut up!” Another blow. Another crunch. Dick gritted his teeth against the rage that was starting to tint his vision red. “Don’t you dare talk about him!”

“Awww, broken little wing was precious to you, wasn’t he?” Joker howled with laughter. “What was his name again? I know it was something pathetically generic with a J. James? Jacob? Oh—I remember! Jason. Worthless, run-of-the-mill name for a worthless, run-of-the-mill dead sack of meat.”

Something snapped and this time, it was not a bone. For a few seconds, it was as if the world had shifted out of focus. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t hear. But he could feel. He could feel his own breath, hot and dry, as it escaped in short huffs. He could feel the pressure against his carbon-fiber-coated knuckles as they came down against flesh and bone again and again and again and again.

It was a harsh grip around his fist that suddenly stopped his punch – he would have lost count even if he had bothered to count – that pulled him back to reality, to the sight of a deformed, broken, blood-splattered face in front of him, for just a split second, before it was replaced by dark gray armor and the pitch-black symbol of a bat.

“Nightwing, stop!”

He struck on pure instinct, but his quick jab was blocked almost instantly. Someone whirled him around and pushed him back against the consoles. When he looked up, Bruce’s eyes stared at him cold and unforgiving.

“Stand down, Nightwing!”

“I got it, I got it!”

The rage had faded, but the annoyance still remained. He swatted the two hands that were starting to loosen their grip around his wrists to the side and started pacing as he glanced around the room. Harley was still alive, although barely. Joker...

Joker was not breathing. Joker’s heartbeat was zero. Joker was dead.

Ghost was kneeling by his side, empty epinephrine injector next to his cape, both hands pushing onto Joker’s chest in a steady rhythm. Dick shook his head. This had to be a dream.

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna try to revive the bastard!”

Ghost didn’t answer. Oracle did.

“Of course he is. I am soooo sorry to interrupt this valiant CPR attempt,” a short burst of static told him she had adjusted the channel to include another comms line. Judging from the hardening line of Bruce’s mouth, it was his. “BPD is at your door step right now. Unless you both want to escape through a hail of bullets, I suggest you leave now.”

She was right of course. Dick switched back to detective vision and frowned at the sight of several armed officers making their way up to their location. They were only three flights of stairs away.

“Let’s go, Ghost.”

He didn’t wait for the reply. First of all, he would probably be lucky to get any. Secondly, he knew what it would be, even if he got it, and he didn’t want to hear it. Dick grappled up to the closest window, slipped through quickly and started escaping out of the container yard. It had started to snow heavily, but he barely felt the cold as he grappled back to his favorite perch in the business district near the Spine.

As a matter of fact, he barely felt anything. Dick retreated into the shelter the tower’s balcony and finally took a moment to take stock.

None of his injuries were serious. A few bruises from Joker’s blocks and counterattacks here. Probably mild contusions from Bruce’s grip there. He didn’t hurt. He didn’t regret either. He probably should. In the darkness of his little shelter, Dick glared at his hands. The grayish snow was turning red where it mingled with the blood, but the sight left him strangely detached. He had expected to feel remorse at taking a life. He had expected to feel joy that it had been Joker’s. Instead, there was nothing.

“Dick.”

“Field names.” Dick grinned, even as the words wormed their way between his teeth. This was not a funny situation, and yet part of him apparently found it hilarious enough for quips. “I’ve been waiting to throw that one back at you, Red.”

“Come back to the manor, now.”

The line went dead and just like that the little spark of amusement was gone. Dick felt his hands sink, together with his head and his spirits. He couldn’t remember the last time he had heard Jason so... detached. Cold-blooded pragmatism was nothing new from him. Neither was cold fury. But this... this uninvolved, unengaged matter-of-fact factuality – that chilled him more than the snow dancing all around him and tied his stomach into a thousand knots.

“You killed him.”

He didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Part of him didn’t want to. With a deep breath, Dick straightened up and turned to his right.

Despite the cowl, Ghost, Bruce, managed to look angry and heartbroken at the same time.

“Dick... what have you done?”

“I killed him.” The words sounded strangely... ordinary. “Someone was bound to, eventually.”

“Dick—“

“I have no regrets.”

 _Not yet anyway._ He had a sinking feeling that this cold objectivity with which his mind currently approached the subject was just an instinctive reaction to protect him from the full emotional impact of what he had just done, and that it would all come back to him later. _Good._ Dick exhaled deeply. He would deal with it then.

“Why?”

“Because he’s a cold-blooded monster, who killed thousands of people and nearly killed my little brother. How am I supposed to regret that?”

“Why did you kill him?”

“Same reason.”

That had apparently done it. Ghost lunged forward, backing him up against the wall with one arm pressed against Dick’s larynx. It would have been a threatening gesture, had it not been for the utter lack of anger in his eyes. If anything at all, Bruce looked sad.

“We do not kill, Dick.”

“There’s a first time for everything.” That seemed to hit him harder than expected and Dick rolled his eyes in response. “I’m a cop, Bruce. Or I was anyways. You think they teach you to ‘shoot to wound’ at the academy?”

“I taught you better than that!”

“You, Bruce!” Slowly but surely his indifference thawed and gave way to anger. “And only you. Here’s a newsflash for you, Bruce: you are not the only person in the world. You are not the be-all-end-all of my life. You are not the master of the universe.” He swallowed hard. “I have no regrets. Gotham and Blüdhaven will be better off without Joker.”

Bruce’s arm withdrew slowly. The disappointment was written all over his body – his face, his arm, his shoulders. “I managed to revive him.”

Dick blinked. He felt stuck halfway between laughing hysterically and crying out in frustration. In the end, he settled on angry shouting. “Then what the hell is your problem, Bruce? What is your goddamn problem? Joker’s still alive, Jason’s still going to have to live with the idea that the monster who broke him still exists, I don’t get thrown in jail for murder, and you can go to sleep knowing that you stuck to all your rules. What the hell is your problem, Bruce?!”

Instead of answering, Ghost simply left.

***

Joker was dead.

Well, at least he had been. Bruce had revived the fucker, of course, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t give Dick an A for effort and a B for execution. B, because Jason was pretty sure it had been accidental after all.

It just had to have been.

Jason sat by the circular window of the upstairs drawing room, wondering what it said about him as a person that he subtracted points for _accidental_ murder. More importantly, he wondered what it said about Dick, Dickie, Goldie, Mr. Sunshine, Mr. Perma-Smile, the Prodigal Son of their screwed up, dysfunctional family, that he had broken _the one rule_ , that he had finally ended Joker for everything he had done.

_No. For me._

Somehow that thought still didn’t compute. He looked outside, watching quietly as the winds picked up again, howling around the manor, turning the innocent, white flakes descending from the heavens into deadly little projectiles.

Richard John Grayson, Nightwing, had killed the Joker. Not because of all the horrible things he had done over the course of his life, although Dick had made no secret of the fact that he had nothing but contempt for those. Not because of what he had done to Harley. His vitals had been in perfectly acceptable ranges throughout the entire mission.

Until Joker had mentioned Jason.

Jason wanted to laugh, but the sound died in his throat. How many times had he dreamed of this? How many times had he wanted someone to avenge him (even if there was not much avenging to be done, given that he was still alive and all)? Now that it had finally happened, it seemed like a hollow victory, like a completely useless gesture.

For starters, if that had been Joker, then who the fuck had Gordon cremated after Arkham City? And if that really had been Harley, then why had she been running from him? And if it hadn’t been Joker, then who the hell had he been?

More importantly though, what the hell had Dick been thinking? And why, for crying out loud, did it have to be him?

The main door opened with a loud creak, inviting both the storm and the pair of birds that were returning to the nest. He could hear them arguing long before he could see them. Thankfully, neither one of the two looked worse for wear, although that didn’t have to mean much. The worst injuries were not usually the physical ones.

“Tim, you’re not my mom, okay?!”

Dick threw up his hands in sheer desperation while backing off quickly. Defensiveness and fatigue were written all over his face as he cast one look at Barb and Alfred, coming up from the basement, and decided that this was not a discussion he wanted to have. He climbed up the pillars and balustrade to the second floor fast and agile as a monkey, landing on the soft carpet with a quiet thud. Jason watched his mouth curve into a quick, fake grin before the door to Dick’s room slammed and locked behind him.

“Great job, Timbers. Did you give him the same lecture Bruce did, or did you at least show some originality?”

Robin sighed deeply. “I didn’t really have a chance to do either. He’s been evading Bruce _and_ me ever since he decided to call it a night and come home.”

“He just needs some time,” Barb said as she reached for Tim’s hand. “Let him blow off some steam. Give him some room. He’ll come around.”

“Agreed.” Alfred nodded. “Shall I prepare an early dinner then, so everyone can get some rest for a change?”

Tim took off the mask with a quick shrug and trotted off towards the stairs. “Yeah. Dinner sounds good.”

***

Alfred had made stroganoff, an all-time favorite for everyone in the manor. They had knocked on Dick’s door just before the food was done, but all they had received in reply was low, disgruntled grumbling that sounded remotely like the words “go away”. Alfred was the only one who had smiled at that.

“Master Grayson behaved much the same way after all his fights with Master Bruce while they were both still living here. He will come around once the hunger grows too strong.”

Judging from their solemn nods, Tim and Barbara actually took that as a good sign. Jason wanted to choke on his beef. No one living in a place called a “manor” should be growing hungry. Ever. What good was money if you were going to half-starve yourself to death?

“So, Jason…” Barb took a few tentative bites herself, then looked at him from across the dining room table. “Alfred told us you wanted to make some changes around here?”

Now he actually did choke on his beef. Jason put the fork down quickly, before his mind could come up with new and exciting ideas of how to wreak most havoc with simple cutlery and stared long and hard at Alfred. The butler gave him a quiet nod. He was about to deflect the conversation with a quick “it’s nothing” or “doesn’t matter now”, when his mind thankfully pointed out to him what his part of the bargain had been.

_From now on, you will do your utmost to be upfront and honest with your siblings about any issues that might affect you or them._

There was no way he was weaseling his way out of this without breaking a promise to Alfred. Jason swallowed hard.

“I want the four of you to stop watching over me like a flock of over-protective hens.” He braced for the inevitable argument that was about to come, only to be met with attentive silence. It took him a moment to realize why. Dick wasn’t here. Dick would have argued, but he wasn’t here. “Especially that over-protective, clingy Blüdhaven octopus.”

“Well,” Tim finished the rest of his stroganoff and dabbed his mouth with a napkin as if he were dining in a five-star hotel. “I can’t speak for the Blüdhaven Octopus, but I’m fine with it.”

“Really.” That had been too easy. Jason didn’t believe a damn word he was hearing. “Just like that? All good?”

“All good,” Tim smiled back at him. “This house is not your prison, Jason. It’s supposed to be your home. We were watching _over_ you, not watching you.”

“We are going keep the cameras, of course,” Barb added quickly. “And the bio-tracker.”

Jason rolled his eyes. He wasn’t sure where exactly the bio-tracker was hidden, although he would not be surprised to find that Barb had micro-chipped him somewhere along the line – she had always been paranoid about keeping track of everyone and everything – but he hadn’t really expected any less.

“And we’re still gonna check in on you every six hours,” Tim agreed. “But no more constant oversight. I promise.”

“Gee, how kind of you. I’m touched.” To his right, Alfred coughed gently. His stare was cold as ice though and there was no mistaking its meaning. Jason swallowed hard. “And I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Barbara looked genuinely surprised. He couldn’t blame her. After all, her strawberry shake had been perfectly healthy and safe.

“For the fight we had last night. And for the spiked drinks.”

Tim cringed hard and instantly eyed his own glass with fresh suspicion. Jason sighed.

“Not that one. The ones I prepared for you and Dick earlier.”

To his left, Tim merely chuckled. “See, I knew there was a reason I didn’t touch that one.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “You guys didn’t drink them?” Part of him felt strangely and disproportionally disappointed. All that work for nothing.

“Well, _I_ didn’t.”

Barb grinned over her own glass. “Dick did, though. The look on his face was priceless.”

***

The hours passed both too quickly and too slowly at the same time. Alfred was the first to retire, retreating back to Bracken to fix what was sure to be a very unhealthy mood clinging to its new owner. Tim and Barbara went to bed just before sunrise.

In the darkness of the empty kitchen, Jason frowned as he settled in for a long wait with a kitten in his lap and a brush in his hand. Sunrise eventually came, but the darkness remained almost the same and Jason sighed at the implication. It was going to be one of _those_ Gotham days then. Bleake, dreary, shrouded in clouds, not a single ray of sunshine. By the time the clock struck twelve, it wasn’t much brighter outside than it had been at four.

It was another hour and a half until Dick finally walked – no, shuffled – into the kitchen. His feet were dragging, his arms were hanging limp by his side, and his head hung low, although as far as Jason could see from the darkness of his little corner, it was not because of injuries. As drained and lifeless as the movements seemed, they were too symmetric to indicate injury. He watched as Dick rummaged through the fridge on sheer automated routine and retrieved his re-heatable box of stroganoff. The microwave sprang to life with a cheerful beep and a deep hum, while Dick did his best to hide his tired eyes from the small slithers of light, with his bangs as a back-up for the window curtains.

“You look like crap, Dick.”

The grin that stretched across Dick’s face was as fake as they came. “Nah, I’ll be fine. Just need some more sleep.” If he was surprised that Jason had been waiting for him in the kitchen, he didn’t show it. “What are you still doing up and about, anyway? You should be asleep.”

“So should you.”

“I just slept.”

“Liar.”

At last, Jason moved out of his little corner and into the open. Up close, Dick looked even more exhausted than before, if that was even possible. His eyes were red and glazy, his movement sluggish and unrefined. Worst of all, though, the cheer in his voice, in his face, had gone.

“We need to talk, Dick.”

The kitten seemed to have gotten the hint and scooted off his lap and into the dark void of the main hall with a faint meow, prompting another small smile.

“You scared the kitty—“

“I don’t give a damn about the cat!” He slammed his hand against the fridge door for emphasis and repressed the wince that threatened to come along with the pain in the side of his hand. “What were you thinking, Dick?! What the fuck did you think you were doing?!”

“Dear God, not you, too...” Slowly, the fatigue morphed into exasperation. “I already got this lecture four times tonight, Jason. Four. Fricking. Times! Bruce. Tim. Babs. Alfred.” True to form, Dick started pacing again. “But you know what: I expected it from them. I really did. But you?” He finally stopped in front of the other end of the main counter, one hand braced on the smooth surface, the other balled into a fist at his waist. “I figured you of all people would understand, Jay! Yeah. I snapped. I beat Joker to death. Bastard has had it coming for a long time, and I don’t regret it.” The microwave gave another happy beep to signal the end of the cooking period. “Now if you don’t mind, please move and let me get my dinner, okay?”

Jason’s eyes narrowed. He gave a short nod, opened the microwave door, retrieved the box... and promptly emptied its contents into the nearby sink. Dick blinked at him as if he had just seen a pink unicorn stroll by on crutches. Jason couldn’t have cared less. He had bigger things to worry about. Like keeping his voice leveled rather than screaming like he so very much would have wanted to do.

“What the fuck were you thinking, going there all by yourself?”

“What?”

Dick seemed honestly confused. It was the last straw on the back of a rabidly furious camel.

“That was the fucking Joker, Dick! I don’t care if you killed the bastard, I care that you repeated my own fucking mistakes! And you knew it before you went in there! You were in Blüd, no back-up – Barb and Alfie and I, we’re all stuck here, okay? In. The. Manor. No way to get to you, capiche? Tim was in the middle of defusing a bomb in Kingston. Ghost was fucking who knew where. There was NO ONE to give you back-up and you knew it! What the fuck were you thinking?!”

“That I could handle it.”

“It’s the fucking Joker, Dick!”

He slammed the microwave door shut as hard as he could and was pleased to see a quick shudder go through the figure in the threadbare BPD Academy boxers and tank top. Dressed in all that faded gray, Dick almost looked like a ghost himself, and the sickening feeling that came from that realization snuffed out the satisfaction in an instant. Instead, Jason felt his chest tighten as the words crawled up his throat and out of his mouth.

“ _I_ thought I could handle it, Dick! Look what it got me! It’s. The fucking. JOKER! What if it had been a trap? What if you hadn’t beaten him to a bloody pulp? What if one lucky swing from that crowbar had actually hit you in the ankle? You think you could get far with a shattered ankle? Because I’m telling you: you wouldn’t!”

“Jason...” Whatever bravado had been in Dick’s stance seemed to seep out of him in an instant. “Jason, I—“

“I’m not done, dickhead!” He couldn’t stop now. No matter how much part of him wanted to. He owed it to them. “Did you even think, just for one second, what losing you, the golden, prodigal son, would do to them? Did you? Did you think about how Alfred would be sick with worry? Did you think about how many hours and days of sleep Barb would lose brooding over data on her computer, just trying to look for you? Did you think about how it would make Tim feel to know the hero he worshipped as a kid, the guy he aspired to be, was trapped somewhere with that sick psycho? Did you think about what it would do to Bruce, to lose the kid who finally brought some happiness back into his life after years of survivor’s guilt? I hate to break it to you, Dick, and fuck knows I feel like I wanna bite off my fucking tongue for even saying this, but you and your goddamn cheerful, clingy, ever-sunshine attitude are fucking indispensable for this shit fest of a family, so don’t you fucking DARE go running in, without back-up, just to face that death-worshipping pile of garbage ever again, do you hear me!”

At last, the pressure in his chest slowly subsided. As nice and good as the feeling was, it was soon replaced by the dread filling the void as Dick continued to stare at him, pale as a ghost, dressed like a ghost, silent as a ghost.

“Well, don’t just stand there like a zombie! Fucking say something!”

“I’m an idiot.”

“Very astute. A+, gold star!” He gave him one last scowl before scooping the discarded stroganoff out of the sink and into the cat food bowls, and retrieving the second box from the fridge. “Sit down. I’ll heat up your fucking dinner. I’ll even bother to switch the microwave from defrost to eight-hundred watts before I put it in there, so you can have it before the end of the week.”

He was halfway through rubbing his tired eyes out their sockets when he felt the brush of Dick’s hand on his shoulder. A quick glance to the side told him all he needed to know. Dick was on his knees right next to Jason’s wheel chair, bringing them both of eye level. Despite the murky half-darkness of the kitchen and his fatigue he could see that Dick’s eyes bright blue eyes were filled with worry. And tears.

A gentle squeeze to his shoulder was all the warning he got before Dick’s arms sneaked around him in a tight hug and one of Dick’s slender hands burrowed in his unruly mop of black hair.

“I’m so sorry for making you go through that, Little Wing. I promise I’ll be more careful from now on.”

“You’d better. If that’s how you get yourself killed, I’m not coming to your fucking funeral.” Dick chuckled against his neck, but didn’t budge. Jason gave it another minute until the microwave pinged again and scowled. “You can let go of me now, you over-friendly Blüdhaven octopus.”

That drew a sharp bout of laughter from Dick, but the hug only intensified.

“You know, Jason... all those things you said about why I shouldn’t get myself killed... that’s exactly how we felt when _you_ were gone.”

“Sit down, Dick. Your dinner’s ready.”

He pushed briskly and was pleased to find that Dick for once let go rather than clinging closer, and took his seat at the kitchen table without complaining. Jason cursed at the steaming hot box as he retrieved it from the microwave, emptied it onto a wide plate, and made his way over to the kitchen table, careful not to roll over the curious felines that had come to claim their own specialty breakfast. He watched in slight amusement as Dick practically ripped the spoon and fork he handed him from Jason’s hands, only to stop just an inch short of actually shoving the pasta and stroganoff into his mouth.

“Please tell me there’s no coconut or gelatin in here.”

 _Oh. Right. Milkshakes._ Jason shook his head slowly. “Not this time.” He resisted the urge to bite down on his lip and lit one of the cigarettes he had been hiding away in his wheel chair’s right armrest instead. For once, Dick didn’t even raise an eyebrow at his terrible anxiety-relief habits. “Sorry about that, by the way. The coconut shake, I mean. That was petty and stupid.”

Dick grinned at him through a mouthful of stroganoff, barely swallowing in time to react to that. “Jason, your last prank on me involved dressing up as your psychotic, militaristic alter-ego and pressing a loaded gun to my head. The way I see it, the milkshake was an improvement.”

***

The door creaked ever so softly as Tim let himself into the room, tip-toeing over the moss-colored carpet underneath his feet. Jason was sound asleep, or at least looked like it, one hand gripping the comforter tightly while the other clawed at his left flank. Tim grimaced.

The wound was acting up again, which was hardly surprising. According to Miranda and the CT and MRI scans he had presented to her, Jason was healing faster than expected. The fast-growing muscle pushed and squeezed the mesh that stimulated its growth, causing friction against both the scarred skin that was slowly starting to grow over it and the organs underneath. Without his full immune system to counteract the stimulant, there was nothing his body could do, except to send continuous signals of discomfort to his brain. _Imagine a bunch of ants walking across your kidney_ , Miranda had said, and Tim shuddered at the thought. He no longer had a kidney in his left side, but he couldn’t imagine it being pleasant. His own scar itched in reply.

_Damn sympathy pains._

He tried to nudge the scratching hand away with his staff, only to have five fingers curl around it quickly. Jason groaned into his pillow as he opened his eyes just wide enough to catch sight of him.

“Tim? What—” The change was subtle, but Tim didn’t miss it. If Jason hadn’t been alert before, he was now. “Robin? Damn, is it time for patrol yet?”

“No.” He withdrew the staff slowly and was happy to see Jason didn’t try to fight back. “It’s three-thirty in the afternoon. I’m headed out on a special assignment. Just wanted to check in on Dick and you before I left.”

Jason scoffed and yawned, but Tim knew that the wheels were already turning in his mind. He could tell from the way Jason looked at the wall against his headrest – the one that separated him from the red room and Dick, and then to the other side of his own temporary abode, where the wall was slowly starting to disappear under a heap of drawings. _A Diva For A Diva_ was on there, as was a meticulous rendering of Mitaine sleeping next to the fireplace, and fourteen sketches that looked like they belonged in a Rorschach set drawn by H. R. Giger.

“I’m not making the best case for myself, aren’t I?”

“I think you’re doing great.” Tim chuckled as he sat down in the chair next to the bed to take the sight in for just a little longer. The pictures were disturbing, but they were just that. Pictures. “My professor at university likes to say paper is the best trauma sponge in the world. It doesn’t talk back. It doesn’t judge. It doesn’t demand. It just absorbs whatever you throw at it and gives it some structure to make it understandable.”

“Unless it dies a painful death by tearing, crushing, and burning first. Ask the trash.”

“Why would I? You just confessed, you know?” He swatted away the hand that was going for the flank once more and handed him pencil and paper instead. “Keep drawing, Jason. It’s good training for your fingers and good therapy for your head.”

“Yes, Orderly Drake.” Tim grinned, but before he even had the time to reply, Jason’s scowl darkened into something more serious. “So what’s so important that you’re going out in costume in broad daylight?”

“Harley Quinn.” Tim watched Jason bristle at the name and forced his own face into a mask of stoicism. “She woke up earlier today. I’m gonna go talk to her, before she gets transferred back to Blackgate.”

 _Before she gets transferred to certain death_ , Tim thought glumly.

Harleen Francis Quinzel was a strange woman. Tim had always known her as Harley Quinn, psychotic sidekick of the Joker. When Bruce had first explained to him how he had met a timid, but promising and talented young woman at Arkham all those years ago, Tim had found it hard to believe that they were supposed to be the same person. And maybe they were not. Maybe Harleen was as much Harley Quinn as Jason was the Arkham Knight.

Tim had spent the last five days brooding over the records of her most recent stint in Blackgate, the time spent between the City of Fear Halloween and her escape on the night of the 21st. Her first three months in the high-security psych ward had been a rollercoaster of murderous mania and self-destructive depression. They had pumped her full of bipolar meds and a bunch of other drugs he didn’t care to remember, but that had only seemed to make it worse. When a near-fatal attack on a guard had landed her in an isolation cell, Blackgate staff had expected to collect her body at the end of the month.

Instead, they had collected _Harleen_.

The cell had been bugged to hell and gone, of course, and Tim had spent many hours brooding over the audio Barb had grabbed off Blackgate’s servers. At first, it had been only Harley talking, but soon a lower, calmer, much kinder voice had joined her. Where Harley had lashed out and raged and screamed, Harleen had been speaking almost as if reading from a book – gentle, but with clear purpose.

Upon her release back into the normal program, Harleen had done her best to cooperate. There had been setbacks of course. Tim had only had a chance to skim her records, but apparently she had snapped a couple of times, but given that isolation seemed to do wonders for her mental stability, Tim was not surprised that she had lashed out. The enforced break from the rest of the criminal scum of Gotham, from all memories and connections that tied her to Joker’s gang, had given her the chance to start over, and Harleen had taken it.

According to the few guards who had made it out alive, Joker had had to drag her from her cell. She hadn’t fought back, Harleen was smarter than that, but she had not gone willingly either. She had been silent throughout the entire deal, and judging from the surveillance footage around the docks, she had taken the first chance she had gotten to slip away from Joker’s gang. To try at least. It had been brave. And it had been stupid.

Traitors did not live long in prisons.

“You really think she’s gonna talk?” Jason sounded unbelievably tired and judging from the way his eyelids closed slowly, the rest of his body agreed with his vocal cords. Tim could not blame him.

It had been a rough five days. Bruce had mostly gone dark, even going so far as to refuse talking to Alfred or Barbara to coordinate patrol. Without the distraction of watching over Jason, all of them now had even more time to worry about what to do with him and how to approach the topic of what had happened in that tower without triggering another shouting match. Dick had evaded the same conversations just as skillfully, even if he had done it with a smile on his face. A strained smile, but a smile at least.

The only little hope spot in a week of bad news had been Jason. For the first two days, none of them had seen him. They had the camera footage and the tracker of course, all of which proved that Jason had deliberately re-adjusted his schedule to work around them, to eat when no one else was eating, sleep when no one else was sleeping, and train when no one else was training. For two days, it had seemed as if they had just given him the perfect means and opportunity to re-establish all those barriers they had been working so hard to grind down, piece by piece.

And then, the drawing had started. Silly little pictures at first, detailed studies and copies of mundane things, like a faucet or a door knob or the pattern on the curtains. Then, the nightmare exorcisms had followed. When he had seen the footage of Dick walking in on Jason furiously etching another gruesome penciled ink splotch into the paper, Tim had been sure he was about to see one of his two brothers get eviscerated. Instead, Dick had merely looked at the paper, shrugged and said “yeah, that’s pretty much how I felt when I beat the ever-living daylights out of him”.

Whatever had transpired between Dick and Jason on the afternoon after Dick had killed the Joker – the cameras in the kitchen had been conveniently covered in black paint – had apparently done miracles for the two. Dick was still a hopeless, occasionally goofy optimist, but he was being a hopeless, occasionally goofy optimist from a distance. Jason had retreated back into his little den, but he had not locked the doors and he was no longer snapping at Dick every time he got within five feet of him. There seemed to be a strange kind of truce between the two, and as much as Tim loved solving a good mystery, he was not about to poke the nest of peaceful hornets with the stick of brotherly curiosity.

“I should be going now. I’ve only got an hour left until her transfer.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Jason mumbled through gritted teeth and Tim smiled in return.

“I don’t know if she’ll talk, but I can hope, can’t I?” With a quick sigh, Tim patted his shoulder lightly. “Go back to sleep, Jason. I’ll fill you in on everything once I get back.”

Jason didn’t argue and Tim was grateful for that. It had been a long five days for everyone. They all needed rest. He made his way back to the door and stopped just shy of the knob to turn around once more.

“You know what, Jason? I really think you’re both getting better. And I’m very happy about it.”

***

Gotham during daytime was always strange. There had been a time in Tim’s life, back in his training to become Robin, that he had almost forgotten what daylight in Gotham looked like, a fact he had quickly tried to remedy after Bruce’s ‘death’.

As it turned out, he hadn’t missed much.

The snow was still falling, and the soot and smog was still turning it gray. It went well with the gray buildings and the gray roads and the gray winter coats and the grey cars.

And people wondered why Robin was dressed in red, green, and yellow.

Elliott Memorial Hospital still looked kind of run down, but at least the building was functional again. He made sure to scramble the surveillance cams first, looping the footage and bypassing the alarms, before grappling onto the roof. A quick glance through the cowl confirmed what he had already been told by Barb: Harleen Quinzel was under constant guard, thanks to four armed officers posted by her door. Cash had made sure that everyone on that duty was trustworthy, but soon it wouldn’t matter anymore. The doctors had deemed her stable enough to transfer her to Blackgate’s medical wing, and even Cash could not keep the rats out of that place. With one last deep breath, Robin rappelled down the side of the building and slipped in through the window.

The machines were beeping quietly and Harleen seemed to be in deep sleep. Without the clown make-up and the hair dye and the black-and-red clothes, she looked just like a normal woman. He crosschecked the medical records Barb had dug up against the clipboard hanging from the foot of her bed and did the quick math in his head. One carefully dosaged adrenaline shot to her IV later, Robin waited by her bedside, his back against the wall next to the window and one eye on the door, as she slowly came to her senses.

“Wha...? Where?”

Talking hurt, he could tell. Given what Joker had done to her jaw, Robin was not surprised.

“You’re in Elliott Memorial Hospital, Harleen. It’s January 27th. And I only need to ask you a few questions.”

Despite the jaw and the bandages and the tubes, Harleen managed a slight chuckle. It sounded different from Harley. No cackling. No howling. Just simple amusement mixed with bitterness.

“I don’ know a’out any’hing he’ planning... I don’ wanna...”

“I believe you.” He crouched down next to her bed. “I saw the tapes of your... ‘escape’. I heard your convo with Nightwing and Red. You didn’t want to go with him, did you?” Harleen shook her head, but even that little movement seemed to send her into a world of pain. Tim braced himself and pushed his guilt back down where it belonged. At least while he was on the job. “Was he the real deal, Harleen? Was that really Joker?”

“No.” The word cut sharp through the silence and even though he didn’t even touch her, Tim could feel her body tense. His cowl ran the biometrics data quickly. No increase in heart rate. No increase in temperature. She wasn’t lying. “My dad...”

“Your dad?”

“ _Tat_.” She rolled her eyes and tried to nod in the general direction of her right set of ribs. Robin lifted the sheet covering her as gently as he could and activated the tissue scanner of his cowl. There was a crude, half-inch-wide horizontal burn scar just beneath her breast that stood out in clear contrast against the rest of her skin, even through the fabric of her hospital gown. “Said ‘Property o’ Mr J’. Burned it out two month ago. He wasn’ mad. Joker would’a been mad.”

Tim cringed as the picture of the hideous brand on Jason’s face sprang back into his mind. She was right. Joker _loved_ to mark his property. The real Joker would have flown into a homicidal rage at the sight of the removed tattoo.

_Good news, we’re not dealing with the real Joker. Bad news, we don’t know who the hell Dick killed last week._

“Do you know who—“

She shook his head long before he was done with the question. Judging from the way her eyelids fluttered, the adrenaline was wearing off.

“Was good though... scary good...”

“I know.” Tim sighed deeply before giving her fingers a gentle squeeze and tucking the blanked back into place. “Sleep now, Harleen. You need rest.”

“Frances.” Despite her fatigue and pain, there was a fire in her eyes that was painfully familiar. Tim’s heart ached at the familiar sound of sheer defiance that had been so common from Jason upon his first few months back in Gotham. “M’name is Frances. I don’ wanna be Harley no more.”

“No. You’re not.”

Strangely enough, he actually believed it. Maybe this was just Harley Quinzel pulling an elaborate psychological trick on him, but after all the crap he had been through with Jason, Tim just had to believe. He had to believe that people could be that strong. That something good could survive in them despite Joker.

“So sorry...” In the corner of her eyes, tears were starting to build up slowly. “So sorry for all I did as her...”

“I know you are.”

 _As sorry as Jason was for all that the Knight had done_ , and suddenly that thought brought back a whole slew of memories Tim had been happy to repress for more than a year. It hadn’t been a good night for him. It hadn’t been a good night for anyone. Even remembering it now hurt. He glanced at the clock on the wall – six minutes to go until transfer – and took a deep breath. This might be his only chance.

“Do you want to redeem yourself, just a little, Frances?” He watched her nod quietly and steeled himself for what was likely to be an exercise in futility. “When you held me at gunpoint at Panessa Studios you mentioned the previous Robin.”

“Jason Todd...”

“Yes. Jason.” How he had managed to keep his poker face back then, Tim did not know. It was hard enough now. “Joker claimed he got that name from his finger prints.”

“Liar.” Frances’ lips curved into a tiny, sad smile. “Tried. No info. Whistler.”

“Whistler?”

“Gretchen Whistler.”

Tim froze. That name did ring a bell. She had been among the first psychiatrists to be employed in Arkham Asylum and quickly risen to become a senior staff member. Judging from the testimonials he had heard from survivors of Joker’s riot three years ago, Gretchen Whistler was an unquestioned figure of authority in the Asylum. As far as Tim was aware, she had survived Arkham and was now serving as one of the leading psychiatrists at Blackgate, in charge of treating its most dangerous inmates.

Including Scarecrow.

“Joker’s main mole in Arkham... showed her his picture...” Frances’ vitals were dropping. Her voice had become a slurred murmur. “... recognized face... from the papers... Wayne’s son...”

He was going to say ‘thank you’ but before he even had the chance, Harley was already out like a light. Tim cursed quietly as he climbed back out of the window, grappled up to the rooftop and turned to face south, starting at the hazy, fog-covered distance where Blackgate was looming.

It was time to burn out the rats’ nest.


	27. Smoke And Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the end, it is all a game of deceit and manipulation and few people play it better than Joker's Arkham Asylum mole, Dr. Gretchen Whistler. As Robin and Ghost set out to undo her work, more tensions arise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, this chapter took me forever. I am so, so very sorry. I hope it lives up to everyone's expectations. Thank you all for waiting so long.  
> Trigger warning: There are three POVs here and the last one is pretty disturbing (not the mystery character X I hinted at - that will be next chapter), but I wanted to do this, as a kind of experiment in foreshadowing and writing uncomfortable POVs. If you are not comfortable with death of minor OCs, stop reading at "This was not funny".
> 
> For status updates on my writing progress, background info headcanons and all kinds of random shenanigans, as well as any and all questions you don't want to leave in the comments, please visit my blog:  
> http://lananiscorner.tumblr.com/

This was serious.

Ghost watched from atop the nearest rooftop as the ambulance came rolling around the corner and drove up to Blackgate’s main entrance. Greetings were exchanged, IDs were verified and the vehicle was scanned before the gates budged even an inch. They closed as soon as the ambulance had entered and locked with a loud, metallic clank. To any casual observer it would have seemed to be clean, standard routine, a proper transfer for a prisoner who still required a lot of medical care.

Ghost was no casual observer.

The guards were new. Bruce knew that much from the data his facial scans brought up. Kip Philips, age twenty-three, had been working at Blackgate for less than a month. Simon Ewart had transferred over from Metropolis less than a week ago. The doctors greeting him were interns from Gotham Medical who had managed to postpone their search for a place to intern at long enough until all the good spots had been taken and Blackgate was the only option left.

He could already see the headline: _Two Guards, Doctors Killed At Blackgate Prison During Transfer Of Clown Princess Of Crime, Harley Quinn!_ The youth and inexperience of the young woman and men who had the dubious honor to get Harleen Frances Quinzel settled into the medical ward of Blackgate were not only suitably tragic, but also a convenient cover. Blackgate could claim that _they_ had forgotten to follow proper procedure and make sure all the prisoners were properly detained before wheeling her in, and no one would question it. Especially not in the case of officer Philips, who had been notorious for being ‘a bit of a whiner’ at his old precinct and had basically been shipped off to Blackgate in hopes that he would never return. Bruce shook his head.

It was appalling how often blaming the victim was considered perfectly acceptable.

They were almost past the courtyard now. Bruce double-checked the mechanisms of his grapnel gun, found it in sufficient working order despite the heavy snowfall, and started hacking into the security mainframe. Looping the footage was easier than it should have been, and Bruce scowled at the pathetic excuse of a firewall in his way. Clearly the psychiatrists were not the only group in this place that included a bunch of rotten apples.

He timed his approach perfectly, grappling up when the guard in the right front gate tower turned to face the courtyard, and dropping down into the yard once the guard turned back around to the street. The heavy snow muffled his steps on the tower’s roof just as well as it concealed the light gray suit he reserved for rare daytime missions from the eyes of the other towers. Half a minute later, he had crawled into the main facility through a vent on the first floor and none of the guards were any wiser. He followed them through the vents, cramped and uncomfortable as they were, as the group of five descended deeper into the prison and the conversation descended deeper into madness.

“Why do we even bother?” Simon Ewart scoffed as he unlocked the elevator. “Joker killed eight guards just to get this bitch out of here. _Eight_. How many is it gonna be the next time he comes for her? The same? Double?”

“Will you just can it, Simon?” Marie Wilson rolled her eyes at him, while rolling Harley’s stretcher into the elevator. “Dr. Whistler was there, ok? Said Harley didn’t look like she wanted to go anywhere with him and obviously the reunion didn’t go as well as you think it did. He won’t come back for her.”

Ghost had just slipped from the vent and onto the descending elevator when the communicator in his right ear sprang to life with a quiet buzz.

“Is there any specific reason why you’re doing this without waiting for Robin to show up, or are you just being your usual, stick-up-your-ass self?”

Bruce bit his lip hard. If words could kill, he now had one gun to his head and another in his hands. “He said you were asleep.”

“While Oracle is busy with her day job and Nightwing and Penny-One are finally getting some fucking sleep they deserve?” Jason sounded positively insulted. “Hell to the no. You’re stuck with me, old man.”

Bruce shook his head in that painfully familiar reflex of fond annoyance and frustrated pride which Jason’s crass stubbornness had always used to elicit from him; the one he had cursed so often, only to end up missing it too much. It felt good to know that some things had never changed.

“You still didn’t answer my question.”

Bruce suppressed a sigh as the elevator stopped. “The transfer is happening right now. Someone in this place is dirty. Otherwise, Joker would not have gotten her out of here so easily.”

The doors opened and Bruce watched through the x-ray vision of his cowl as the stretcher was moved through the long corridor that led into the infirmary proper, past temporary cells for injured inmates, half of which were occupied. He followed it through the vents, ready to drop into the hallway as soon as the situation called for it.

But it never did.

They passed by the cells without incident. The temporary treatment section of the infirmary was nearly empty. Dread curled in Ghost’s gut as he followed them to the intensive treatment section and watched them strapping Harleen down and hooking her up to all necessary machines. Something was up. He stopped his track through the narrow vents by a recently deceased rat next to the grate above the bed next to Harleen’s and dialed his audio receivers up to eleven.

“Well, she’s all strapped in. Safe and secure. Snug as a bug.” Simon Ewart stretched as he yawned. “Anybody wanna go play some pool?”

“She’s up for another dose of painkillers,” Marie Wilson rolled her eyes at the clipboard hanging from the bed, before grabbing a syringe and medication from one of the locked cabinets. The liquid looked clear and innocent in the vial. “You guys go ahead. I’ll just give her a shot of fenadryl and we’re done.”

“We need to get in there.” Robin’s voice was sudden, loud, and sharp in his ear, the usual tone that said ‘no non-sense allowed’. “Harleen’s allergic.”

He pried open the grate just as the intern aligned the needle and pushed. She checked Harley’s vitals one last time, then left to join her friends in the break room. Bruce hacked into the camera feed, looped the footage for the intensive care unit and dropped down silent as a feather.

The clipboard hanging from her bed mentioned not a single allergy, even though it did have a full record of any and all medication given to her during her time in the normal cells and in isolation and even though he could clearly see it mentioned in the electronic record he had gotten off the Blackgate servers earlier this week. At the bottom of each clipboard page, the signature ‘M. Wilson’ and the date ‘2017-01-25’ stood out in clear handwriting. Bruce frowned as he dug the epinephrine cartridge for his wrist darts out of his rightmost pouch. He would have to dig deep into the file history to find out who had changed the file to drop mention of her allergies for this specific day.

“You know sharing is caring, right” Robin whispered as he dropped down from another grate to his right. “Because I can see you’re thinking about something, but I can’t read minds, contrary to what some people think.” Tim picked the lock of the drawer labeled ‘E’ and the grin fell from his face. “Zero epinephrine in here. Someone cleaned this place out.”

“Or ‘forgot’ to restock,” Bruce added. Behind him, the machines started giving off an alarming series of beeps as Harleen’s blood pressure began to fall and her breathing patterns went haywire. Bruce sent the wrist dart into her right thigh and watched as her vitals slowly returned to normal. The fact that he could not hear any footsteps rushing towards their location suggested that someone had messed with the monitoring system, too.

“Got a loose connector on this unit,” Tim explained as he started looking over the devices Harleen was hooked up to. “Someone was definitely trying to make this look like negligent manslaughter.”

“Someone tried to kill Harley Quinn – big shock.” Bruce could practically hear Jason roll his eyes through the comms line. “Prison’s a gang land and judging from the records of her time in Blackgate she’s been refusing to play by the rules, even before she dumped her psychotic boyfriend. There’s not a single crew in there that would want her alive. At least not for very long.”

“Trust me, Red, the inmates are not the problem here,” Robin responded with a quick shake of his head. “Oracle, how’s that transfer order coming along?”

“On the way.” Oracle’s voice was underscored by the sound of constant tapping on keys. “I didn’t even have to dig all that deep for positive psych evaluations and I’ve told dad I’d be ready to hand this off to Vicki Vale if he didn’t sign it. He was not amused.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be busy updating and re-cataloguing Princeton’s online library right about now?”

“Multi-tasking, Red.”

A short click let him know that Oracle had dropped from the line. To his left, Harleen’s vitals had returned to normal. The keyword search of his line into the Blackgate comms gave a short beep, signaling that new instructions regarding Harleen Frances Quinzel had arrived. Judging from the reactions of the prison warden, no one was going to be amused by the fax asking for an immediate transfer to another facility. In any case, the room they were currently in would be crawling with security and medical staff soon. With one last look at the heart rate monitor, Ghost and Robin retreated back into the vents.

***

The transfer went off without a hitch and Tim was grateful for that. He watched the van drive past the Gotham City border just as the sun was starting to set – not that anyone could tell in this weather – and breathed a sigh of relief. That was one problem taken care of.

“You have new intel.”

And _there_ was another one. Tim sighed as he turned around. Ghost looked perfectly stoic, as always, but Tim had learned to read the other tells a long time ago. With Bruce, it was less about what he said and showed, than about what he did not say or show.

To Tim’s ears, he hadn’t said ‘you have new intel’. He had said ‘you have new intel and you did not tell me – it is time to come clean’. But was it really? Tim swallowed the urge to bite his lip or tap his feet as he considered his options.

He could, of course, be a good Robin and tell Ghost everything he knew, together with a decent apology for not contacting him sooner. It might make Bruce feel slightly better over all of this, although hell would freeze over before he showed it, so really the apology was all but unnecessary. It would gain him absolutely nothing, except maybe an eased conscious for confessing to improper protocol and a guilty conscious for falling back into the mind space of Batman > Robin. _I’m glad you’re not him_ , Barb’s voice echoed in his head. _You can be better than him_.

He could, also, tell him absolutely nothing, lie to his face, and pretend he didn’t have any new intel. Bruce would know that he was lying and it would be sure to piss him off. _Jason would love that_ , Tim thought wryly, although he could not quite share his brother’s schadenfreude. Even after everything that had happened, even in spite of everything he knew was likely to happen if he didn’t, Tim did not want to lie to Bruce. They all carried enough secrets from the world already. They should not have one from each other.

“Robin—“

“You have the right to remain silent,” Jason cut in sharply. “Especially when talking to this fucker.”

If Tim wasn’t mistaken, there was a slight frown on Bruce’s face as he swallowed the urge to reprimand Jason for his language. Jason was right, of course. He could also do that. Just shut up and leave and go back to the manor, just like Bruce had so often done. The idea had a certain appeal. God knew Bruce deserved to have someone pull that move on him for a change.

“Our most likely suspect for the attempt on Harley’s life is Gretchen Whistler.” Tim took a deep breath. “She used to work with the real Joker.”

He expected the first answer to be either a sudden burst of temper from Jason or a disappointed scowl from Bruce. Instead, he got a confused yawn from Dick.

“The _real_ Joker?” Dick sounded like hell. Probably felt like it, too. “What do you mean ‘the real Joker’?”

“Goldie, what are you doing on this fucking line?” Jason was probably rolling his eyes right about now. Tim could only hope he and Dick were not in the same room. There would be blood. “You should be in bed, goddamn it.”

“It’s five-thirty, Red,” Dick lobbed back at him. “I’ve had a shower and two cups of coffee. I’m ready to go. Tim, what did you mean ‘the real Joker’?”

“I had a talk with Harley earlier,” Robin explained, one eye on his surroundings, one on Ghost, still silent and unmoving as a fricking Weeping Angel. “Before she got transferred back to Blackgate. She had a ‘Property of Mr. J’ tattoo on her rib cage that she burned off while in prison. He saw it, but didn’t react to it, at all.”

“The real Joker would have beaten her to a pulp for that,” Dick concluded.

“No, he wouldn’t.” Suddenly, Jason sounded nothing short of exhausted. “Bruises heal and there’d be no funny twist in it. Joker would have told her that if she was so much into fire, he’d be happy to break out the branding iron. And he’d do it.”

Jason would know. Tim bristled at the memory of the brutal J on his brother’s cheek. He could only imagine the scorching feeling of pain and disgust it was probably evoking in Jason right now.

“If that wasn’t the real Joker—“

“You still did the world a favor.” The exhaustion was gone in an instant. Jason’s voice was steel and it cut through Dick’s half-formed regret like a hot knife through butter. “Maybe it wasn’t Joker. Maybe it was some kind of deranged clone. Maybe it was someone who got infected with his blood and we missed them. Wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe it was some fucked up wannabe. Either way, son of a bitch killed eight people to get Harley out of Blackgate, then beat her to a pulp when she wouldn’t cooperate, and he genuinely seems to think he _is_ Joker, which means he feels zero remorse for anything he does. You did the world a fucking favor.”

“Jason—“

“Good night, everybody.”

Tim cursed under his breath as Jason dropped off the comms line. It was probably the best way the conversation could have ended, as many of the alternatives that instantly came to his head involved shouting matches between either one of his brothers and Bruce, but that did not mean he had to like it. Jason would likely retreat into his shell now, like he so often did when someone touched a nerve. God only knew how long it would last this time, and as much as Tim wanted to give him all the time he would need, he doubted brooding loneliness and silence was what Jason needed now. Maybe what he wanted. Not what he needed.

“Shall I go back for him?” Dick’s voice was unbelievably soft and almost muffled by the roaring of his motorbike. “I can be back at the manor in ten. Eight and a half if I cut a few corners.”

“No.” Tim could just imagine it – Dick pulling stunts on his bike that were more likely to get the average person killed than to get them to their destination any faster. He already had a wife and a brother confined to a wheel chair. He didn’t need another. “Meet us at Panessa’s.” Tim shot Bruce a look that hopefully conveyed his fervent inner plea of ‘don’t you dare argue with me’. “We need a battle plan. _All_ of us. And I have one more piece of intel that just might be deeply problematic.”

Robin didn’t wait for Ghost or Nightwing to reply. Instead, he reached for his grapnel gun and aimed for the nearest rooftop. Bruce had his Batmobile 3.something and would probably offer him a ride – read: order him to get in – if given half a chance. Dick would probably offer to make a detour and pick him up with his bike, but Tim had to decline. He needed time to sort this out. Time to decide how he was going to handle this. How he was supposed to keep Bruce from taking off on his own and how he was supposed to keep Dick from doing yet another thing he would regret later.

In the end, he got thirty-eight minutes.

Dick was already there when he arrived. Bruce – who had apparently been tailing him, as if he was still the young, inexperienced Robin that needed protection – got there at the same time Tim did. He held back on opening the shutters, if only to have the satisfaction of watching Bruce try to use his voice-print to bypass security, only to be denied access. Dick grinned at him from his perch on top of the giant director statue’s megaphone.

“Seriously, B? After everything you pulled, you still think you’re getting into any of our bases just like that?”

“I built this base,” Bruce replied tersely.

Tim shook his head and tapped the space between the shutter grating that only three people in the world even know existed, and stood still as the retina scanner did his work. “Authorization, Robin. Open.”

“Voice print recognized. Scan positive. Welcome, Robin.”

The shutters lifted with a heavy rattle, accompanied by chunks of ice falling off its edge. He waited until both Dick and Bruce had made their way into the elevator, before slamming both the doors shut and giving Bruce a stern look.

“Just so we are clear: Dick and I, we are both watching your every move. Barbara has cameras all over this place. If you even so much as try to tinker with this place, if you even touch _anything_ down in the hideout, you are never coming here again.”

For once, Bruce did not argue. Tim was grateful for that. The elevator reached the bottom, Tim stepped out, activated the Batcomputer, and opened the visual link to the hidden basement of the manor. Barb’s bright smile was about the only thing that was going to be enjoyable about this situation.

“Good morning, boys.” The smile faltered just for an instant. “Bruce. I trust you know not to try and mess with my security again.” Ghost gave the faintest hint of a nod. “Good. I heard your conversations over the comms earlier. I suppose you want the status update on Gretchen Whistler. The dirt I have on her, so far, potential accomplices who might also be working for this new ‘Joker’—”

“We don’t have time for that.”

That earned him confused looks from everyone. Including Barb. Tim rolled his shoulders and steeled himself for what was bound to be a powder keg getting fitted with a nice, shiny fuse.

“Harley can wait. She’s been transferred out of state. She’ll be fine for a week or two at least. God knows no one outside of Gotham and Blüd wants anything to do with anyone working with the crazy people _in_ Gotham and Blüd. What we need right now is Whistler’s progress with Scarecrow.”

“Scarecrow?” Dick raised an eyebrow and ditched the picture-perfect handstand he had been performing in favor of a more dignified position. “What’s he got to do with any of this? Last I heard he was still a mostly incoherent mess.”

“Mostly,” Tim agreed sourly. “Barb?”

“Dr. Whistler was assigned as his leading psychiatrist,” Barb explained as her eyes followed trails of data none of them could see. Tim could just picture the image on her main screen right now. Utterly confusing to any outsider, yet constructed with meticulous care and a solid, but complicated pattern. “She used to follow the standard therapeutic approach of Blackgate with him – trying to divert from his ramblings about the Arkham Knight and focusing on his own condition instead. That is, until about three weeks ago, when she instead started encouraging him to speak about the Arkham Knight, but I don’t see how that is relevant.”

“Neither do I,” Dick agreed. “Unless you’re trying to imply that she wants to recruit the Knight for Joker.” Suddenly, Dick burst into bright laughter. “Can you imagine what that conversation would be like? Lord knows I don’t ever want Jason to have to go back to being the Knight, but part of me would love to see that.”

“You’re halfway down the right track.”

Tim brought up the transcripts of Dr. Whistler’s latest sessions with Scarecrow. At first, it looked innocently enough. She had asked him questions about the Arkham Knight – innocent ones – like any good scientist or doctor trying to understand a subject would ask. What – not _who_ – was the Arkham Knight? What were his most prominent traits? – According to Scarecrow: violence, volatility, and a fixation with Arkham, Batman, and the color red. Where had he come from? – Nobody knew, but he knew Gotham all too well. Why had he come to Scarecrow? – For the fear toxin. True pain. True terror.

Dick’s smile dissipated. “She’s fishing for information.”

And then, like any good therapist would do, Gretchen Whistler had done her best to assure her patients that, yes, everything he felt about the Knight was valid, if not necessarily right. No, she did not think he was crazy for believing he was still alive. Yes, if she had to give it her best guess, based on the information at her disposal, Crane’s theory that the Knight was not one of Batman’s enemies, but an old ally did not sound crazy. No, Crane was not insane.

Tim swallowed hard. “What else happened three weeks ago?”

“Jason’s return to Gotham became public knowledge.” For once, the emotions were easy to read on Bruce’s face, in the thin, displeased line of his mouth, and in the harsh, uncompromising glare of his eyes. “She is egging Crane on.”

“But Whistler doesn’t know Jason was the Arkham Knight.” Dick shook his head. “It can’t be. She can’t know he was the Knight!”

“No.” Tim sighed. “But she does know that he was Robin.”

“What?”

Barbara’s mouth hung open in shock. Dick mirrored her perfectly. Bruce... Bruce had not moved an inch and Tim was thankful for that. Every once in a while, having someone in the room be a pillar of steadfast, stoic resolution was a good thing.

“When I paid Frances a visit earlier today, she apologized for everything she had done as Harley Quinn. She sounded genuinely sorry,” Tim explained. “There’s a question that’s been on my mind ever since she tried to kill me right here, in this building. Back then, she asked me if Bruce had ever told me about what Joker did to Jason. So today, I asked her: how did she know his name? How did Joker for that matter? Because Barb wiped all his data from every server in existence, didn’t you?”

Barb merely nodded. Realization was starting to dawn in her face. Tim took that as his cue to move on.

“According to Harley, Gretchen Whistler was Joker’s main mole in Arkham Asylum. Not the only one, but the highest ranking one with the most access to sensitive data. He showed her a picture of the Robin he had locked up in that abandoned sanatorium wing... and she recognized him from the papers. Jason’s face was all over them, remember? Disappeared son of billionaire Bruce Wayne? Potential runaway? Failed social project and all that?”

Bruce remembered, if the clenching of his fist was anything to go by. Calling Jason a failure and reducing him to nothing but his admittedly less than pitiful pedigree had always been the easiest way to make Bruce blacklist whatever interviewer was stupid enough to pitch those thoughts. Dick on the other hand did not look angry in the least. Dick looked to be ready to throw up from sheer horror.

“She’s put one and two together, and now she’s trying to point Crane into the right direction.”

“And once she has him there, you can bet your last dollar there’ll be an ‘unfortunate accident’ at Blackgate that ends with Scarecrow escaping,” Barbara concluded. “I see what you mean. This is... pretty bad.”

“It’s a disaster,” Dick corrected. “Jason may be under our protection right now, but what do you think is going to happen once his injuries are fully healed?”

“He’s gonna ditch and keep his distance for a while,” Barb said as her fingers starting flying across her keyboard, no doubt digging up the rest of Whistler’s therapy sessions with Crane. “He’s gonna try to compensate for the enforced proximity by insisting on patrolling solo, living solo, minimal communication and tracking...”

“We can’t let this happen.” Dick started pacing. It was a habit Tim had observed many times, but never quite gotten used to. Dick claimed it helped him fire up his synapses. Tim was sure it helped him fire up his temper as well. “I’ve already seen him doused in fear gas not even two months ago. I really, really don’t want to go through that ever again. I don’t _ever_ want _Jason_ to go through that again!”

“So don’t let him go,” Bruce said as if he had just proclaimed that water was wet and fire was hot. “Keep him at the manor until we have enough evidence to take Gretchen Whistler down. I can deal with Scarecrow, should he escape.”

Dick’s feet ground to a halt in an instant. The look on his face was one of absolute, stunned horror.

“I’m sorry, what now?”

“You heard me, Dick.” Bruce was unmoving as a boulder. “For his own safety—“

“No!” Dick accentuated the shout with a sharp swing of his arm that would have made for a perfect hit had he stood any closer. “What the hell is wrong with you, Bruce? Do you—do you even hear yourself when you talk? Jason barely trusts any of us to begin with. It’s taken us weeks and months to gain something of a mutually supportive relationship with him and you want us to axe all that by locking him up, by taking away his choice, his _freedom_ , to leave?”

“It is for his own good—“

“STOP MAKING EXCUSES!”

It was one of the coffee mugs on the side of the main keyboard that eventually had to die a violent death, smashed into a hundred shards at Ghost’s feet. Dick was fuming. Tim let him.

“He’s not fifteen anymore, Bruce, and even if he were, he’s still an actual, living, breathing human being of his own! You’re so focused on keeping him _physically_ safe and on the idea that you may fail him, that you’re not even considering what it’s going to do to _him_!”

“I _am_ considering it.”

“And clearly deeming it less important than your own priorities!”

Bruce didn’t answer. If he was affected by Dick’s rage in any way, Tim could not tell, but that had always been the problem with Bruce, had it not? No one could tell. He had built a hundred walls between himself and the world, and trying to get anything from one side to the other, no matter in which direction, was an effort that had the approximate pleasantness of a root canal.

“We can’t lock him up,” Barbara agreed. “Not without re-traumatizing him and re-enforcing the ideas Joker put in his head. I don’t want to do that to him. I’m not sure he’d survive it with we did.”

Tim couldn’t agree more. “I think it’s safe to say that at least one of us would bite the dust, so I propose a different approach.”

“You have a plan.”

Sometimes, Bruce’s quick expressions of genuine surprise made Tim want to punch him in the face. Then again, it was nice to know that some things had not changed.

“If we let Whistler continue, there’s no telling how much damage she’ll do. How many people she’ll potentially tell about Jason.”

“Or how many people she has already told,” Dick said. “If she’s working with this fake Joker, who’s to say she hasn’t told him?”

“If she thinks he’s the real deal, he’d probably be the last one she would ever tell.” Barbara re-adjusted the position of her glasses, then continued typing. “If she knows he’s not the real Joker though...”

“Bottom line is, we don’t know. Yet.” Tim took a deep breath. “So I propose this: Barbara keeps searching for something we can actually pin on her in a court of law, while we make the good doctor talk.”

“Tim!” Dick looked at him in pure shock. “You’re not saying—We can’t just torture a civilian for information, even if it is that old, lying hag!”

“I was thinking sodium pentothal.”

“Not reliable.” Bruce shook his head. “Pentothal merely lowers higher cognitive functions, but that does not automatically ensure that the subject will tell the truth.”

“I know something that can.”

That took Tim by surprise. Judging from the looks on Barb’s and Bruce’s faces, he was not the only one. Nightwing merely shrugged.

“Correction. I know _someone_ that can.”

***

This was not funny.

He watched from the highest window in the church’s clock tower as the van came rolling around the corner and drove up to St. Benjamin’s door step. Well, he supposed it _could have_ been funny, if someone had had Harley, the little wench tied up and drenched in literally burning Tabasco sauce in the back of the van. Nothing like a good old-fashioned Barbie-cue! Alas, how disappointing of his wanna-be clowns and would-be thugs to come in with an empty van and empty hands and empty heads. They probably thought he would just laugh it off.

Joker was not laughing.

Longlegs John with his spidery arms and legs was the first to come in, sniveling little coward. The Quiet Ed and Big Bob. And then, last but not least, the prima donna of tonight’s show – Marie Wilson. Well, not technically the prima donna. That would have been Harley’s corpse, but since that plan had gone down the crapper, Marie Wilson would have to do.

A boring name for a boring woman. A failure in ingenuous naming for a failure of an unwitting accomplice.

His lungs still hurt whenever he reached for the water, but that didn’t matter. The water was green and Joker _loved_ green. Green was the color of poison. Green was the color of _fun_.

“Let me go right now!” Ooh, she sounded scared. Joker did his best to suppress the giggles rising in his throat. He didn’t want to spoil the surprise. “Where are you taking me? Stop touching me! No!”

“Hey, ease up, Johnnie,” Bob said. They were getting closer. Joker felt the smile grow on his face. “No touching the Lady until the boss decides what to do with her.”

“Like there’ll be anything left when he’s done with her.”

“What do you mean??” She sounded _really_ scared. _Good..._ “Where are you taking me? Who’s your boss? Please let me go!”

The door opened with a soft click, followed by the loud sound of noisemakers, a shower of streamers, a few popping balloons and a jack-in-a-box holding a bright, purple lobelia flower.

“SURPRISE!”

The look on her face was priceless, marvelous, a piece of art! Joker smiled as a short, frightened shriek escaped her mouth. Oh, she was already playing her part so beautifully, all tears and shivers! She struggled and wriggled, but Longlegs John’s hands had a grip of iron. To his left and right, Bob and Ed were waiting quietly.

_Slackers._

“Well, don’t just stand there, boys! This room ain’t no sight for a lady!”

A very dead lady, even if she did not know it yet. That was half the fun. The grin felt good on his face as he started circling her.

“Poor little Marie... you must be so scared... Wondering what the bad, bad men want to do to you.” She was. He could smell her fear. It was glorious. “But don’t worry – I’m not going to hurt you. No one here is going to hurt you. If you do exactly what I say.” The girl trembled in her tiny blue shoes. Joker hated blue. It was a boring color for boring people. He pointed at the pen and paper on the window sill. “Now, grab that pen and write down the sentence ‘I’m sorry I nearly killed her.’”

“Please—“

“Write.”

Joker did not like to repeat himself. Repeated jokes were rarely funny. He only had one shot at this. Marie had had one shot, too, and she had failed miserably. A terrible performance. A big F. Unacceptable.

All around them, the room had been cleared of any party decoration, leaving only a bleak, cold church tower. It was high time for some light and laughter in here.

Hehe _. High_ time.

By the time she was done, the paper was wet with tears. That was good. It would make everything more convincing. She had failed in her first act. He would make sure she would not fail in her last. He slapped the pen and paper out of her hand and watched them roll across the floor. The final act had come. As Longlegs John grabbed hold of her again, Joker stepped right in front of the terrified doctor.

Somehow it was always doctors. Somehow it always ended in a church. That, too, was funny.

“Why did the chickie go to church?”

“Wh—what?”

The stammer was almost cute. Very convincing.

“Why. Did. The chickie. Go. To church?”

Her mouth tried to form words, but no sound came out. Joker’s smile fell.

“Because she wanted to be an angel.”

That was Johnnie’s cue. Joker watched in delight as Longlegs picked her up easily and pushed her face first through the window Bob had held open. Her scream dragged on for a full two seconds, before culminating in a sharp, audibly splattering thud.

Joker laughed.


	28. Truth And Dare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightwing has called for her aid and so she has come to help. Strangely enough, the issue is not a matter of strength. It is a matter of truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took forever to write! I had about 2/3 (basically almost all of Mystery Character X) done when real-life, plus unexpected headcanons and fanfic requests hit me like a train and I pretty much crashed last Friday. I take the fact that I managed to finish this as a good sign, and I hope you'll still enjoy this chapter, even if there might be a drop in quality there at the end.
> 
> That said: character X was interesting to write, mostly because I could barely find any info on her actual personality, rather than her powers, and I didn't have the time to read her storylines, so I had to wing it reaaaaally hard. I hope it turned out okay.
> 
> For status updates, writing trivia, and occasional random ramblings, please visit my tumblr: http://lananiscorner.tumblr.com/

First impressions were always important. They were important for people, just as they were important for cities.

Back then, Nightwing had greeted her with a confused grin and lots of questions. Now, Gotham greeted her with the sound of distant sirens, the smell of very definitely not distant, rotten fish, and a giant, bipedal, reptilian _thing_ trying to grab her and bite her head off.

Her instincts told her that the creature had once been human. There was something about the way it struck that was very, very human, but then it crawled and jumped for her on all fours, swished  at her with its massive tail, and tried to bite her leg, and just like that the feeling was gone. Maybe it _had been_ human. At some point. Not anymore. She dodged its long swipes and lunges in between attempts to communicate with it – gentle, but firm words in the most unthreatening tone she could muster – but still it reached for her, hungry and crazed and brutal. An unlucky swipe hit her straight in her right arm, scraping open her skin and sending her against an old rusty car, sitting abandoned by the docks. She looked at the injury with mild surprise. It was rare for something mortal to be able to draw blood from her.

Enough was enough.

She gritted her teeth through the pain and lunged, dodging the swing she had now come to anticipate after fighting the scaled beast for long enough, roped its other arm up, climbed up onto its shoulder with a quick jump, and pushed hard. The thing lost its balance, toppling and rolling over with a thundering sound that was somewhere between a howl, a growl, and a roar. It tried to roll over as soon as it hit the ground, but she brought her legs down hard, shattering the wrist of its other arm, and tied its swishing tail to the arm she had already roped up.

“Why did you attack me?” The beast snarled beneath her in reply. Her eyebrows narrowed as she tightened her pull. “I _command_ you to tell me who you are and why you wish to hurt me!”

The sounds the beast gave in return were not even remotely human anymore and did not tell her anything, but its mind did. She could only see glimpses of it. Flashes of distant memories when the thing had looked almost human, the searing agony of bones morphing and skin breaking to adjust to the change, the fire of a saw cutting into and through its arm, the sharp stab of electricity in its neck, and – beneath it all – the hunger. Ever-present, never-satiable, excruciating, hollowing hunger that drove this creature to attack and tear and maim and devour everyone it saw.

And there was nothing she could do to help it.

If this creature’s condition had been brought on by magic, she could have subdued it and taken it to Zatanna. Had it been a curse from the Gods, she could have begged the Gods to lift the curse herself. Had it been brought about by some devilish machinery, she might have taken it to Cyborg, to ask him if there was any way to safely remove the metal and wires. Sadly, neither was the case. This condition was natural. A cruel joke of Mother Nature that had irreversibly cost this poor thing most of its mental capacity and all of its humanity. She shook her head as she drew back her fist for the punch. _Only in Gotham..._

“May the Gods grant your tortured soul peace in the next life.”

She brought her fist down hard and fast. She wanted to look away from the mess of blood and bone it left behind, but she couldn’t. She was ending this poor creature’s life, and even if it was an act of mercy, it was still the end of a life. She owed it to this creature that had once been a man to witness its last moments, its last breath and its last snarl. As she felt its life drain away, her own breath evened out. She had rarely killed and only if necessary. It was never easy. It wasn’t easy now.

She gave a quick look at the massive clock tower in the distance. She had promised Nightwing to be there at nine, sharp. She still had eight minutes. Not enough for a burial, but enough for a funeral.

She used one of the nearby boats lying abandoned by the docks, one with spider webs and dirt all over it, indicating that no one had used it in months. It was barely big enough to hold the massive body and bobbed slowly under its weight. Perhaps the Gods would show him kindness after all. They had been kind enough not to send the snow falling down tonight, after all, so she could use the old upholstery from the rusty car for kindling. She lit it with the little lighter she carried that also doubled as a hidden communication device and watched as the body caught fire.

This is what Gotham was. A cold, stinking hole of a city that turned normal men into monsters, where a cremation was as dignified an end that anyone could expect.

She whispered a quick prayer for the fallen creature, then returned to the task that had brought her here. She had four minutes left to go. For a human, that would have been an impossible time to get from the Narrows to the Asylum on foot, but she was not human. For her, it was nothing. The cars she rushed past were nothing. The floor under her feet barely registered, as she almost flew across the wet grounds of Gotham’s north shore into the direction of Arkham Bridge. The sign that greeted her on the other side, posted just a few dozen yards before the rusty gates, warned her not to take in hitchhikers, as they might be escaped patients.

Even if she hadn’t known about this place before, one look would have been enough to know that the building had not been used in years. The vines were still growing strong, shooting up from the ground to engulf everything they could touch. Poison Ivy. That’s what Gotham had called the woman who had created these plants. Another poor, unfortunate soul, who had been claimed by this city. As far as she understood, this was all that was left of her now. This and three beautiful, strong trees of old that had blossomed from the concrete to save this city from being drowned in a sea of fear. She hoped the citizens of this metropolis were grateful for the sacrifice Pamela Isley had made for them, but she was not holding her breath.

The buildings themselves looked as decrepit as abandoned and condemned buildings were wont to do after almost four years of neglect. The formerly harsh edges of the stone had been smoothed ever so slightly by the wind and water pelting it relentlessly. The windows were broken, leaving empty holes for howling winds. Half the shingles had been torn off the roofs long ago. Still, these buildings had been old even when they had been renovated the last time. She did not want to rule out that they might yet survive.

The meeting was to take place in the main hall of the mansion. It was appropriate enough a place, she supposed. The same place where Batman had been unmasked. She remembered watching the broadcast on television. She remembered Kori’s confusion and dread about what that would mean for Bruce Wayne and his children, going forward. She remembered Diana’s look of sadness upon hearing the news of Wayne Manor’s destruction, and she remembered Superman’s fury and regret at not having intervened.

Bruce Wayne, Batman, had been a strange hero, equipped with a sense of morality that was worthy of the highest praise and a stubborn pride that had been worthy of a kick in the teeth. As she opened the doors to the mansion and escaped from the hammering rain, she did her best to swallow her anger. The Batman had never let anyone help him. The city was his and he had not suffered intruders on his turf, not even if they were there to help. His insistence on working alone, his distrust of everything and everyone had eventually cost him his face and eventually his life. It had been a foolish, unnecessary sacrifice that had only brought more fear and grief.

Thankfully, Nightwing was not above asking for help. She had been surprised.

As she took the stairs up to the main hall, memories of their first – and so far only – meeting came back to her in vivid clarity. How she had tracked a deranged siren to Blüdhaven. How she had run into him as he had tried to break up the fight, only to find himself way in over his head. Batman had trained him well... for mortal opponents. It had been blatantly obvious from the start that he was seriously lacking in experience and skill in dealing with alien or supernatural opponents, and yet Nightwing had saved her life, when the siren’s cry had crawled into her ears and threatened to tear apart her skull.

After subduing the creature, she had thanked him for his assistance and promised him to come to his aid to repay the debt, should he ever need her. She had left him the lighter for that specific purpose and yet she had not thought he’d ever use it. Now, here she was, heeding his call for help. Perhaps not all of Batman’s worst traits had rubbed off on his offspring. Perhaps not all was lost.

The hall seemed to be almost empty when she got there, but she knew better. She did not know where exactly the bats were hiding – probably somewhere in the rafters, judging from their usual behavioral patterns – but she knew they were there. In the center of the room, an old woman with a gaunt face and wiry salt-and-pepper hair sat on a simple chair, bound and gagged. Her muffled cries echoed through the high hall.

She was a good fifteen feet away from her when a second voice joined in.

“That is close enough.” He dropped down from the rafters, as expected, a flash of black and blue, with a charming smile and bright, cobalt blue eyes that betrayed a deadly competence for combat. He would be no match for her, of course, if he chose to go that route, but somehow she doubted Nightwing had called her here just to attack her. “Thank you for coming, Wondergirl.”

“Donna.” She didn’t really mind the title humans had bestowed upon her, but it was not who she was. She was Donna, second princess of the Amazon’s of Themiscyra. “Some of us don’t need or wish to hide our names from the world.”

“Your arm says otherwise.” The smile faded quickly from Nightwing’s lips. “Those are some nasty cuts. I hope your didn’t get them right outside this mansion.”

“They are not half as bad as they look.” Donna shrugged. “And the reptilian creature that gave them to me has been laid to rest.” That made him bristle. His brown knitted into a tiny frown, followed by a deep sigh.

“We do not kill.”

Donna raised an eyebrow at that. “Not all of you, at least. From what I understand at least one of Gotham’s new protectors uses lethal force quite liberally.”

Nightwing’s face showed not the slightest hint of acknowledgment, but Donna could feel that she had hit a soft spot. To their left, the woman looked between the two of them in confusion, which brought her back to the matter at hand.

“I am not here to start a fight, Nightwing, nor am I here to argue. You called for my aid.” She mustered the woman more closely. Her dark brown eyes hinted at a wisdom far beyond her actual years and for a woman who was currently tied to a chair and gagged, she was surprisingly calm. On the white uniform, a nametag proudly read _Dr. G. Whistler_. “I assume she is involved.”

“She is.” Nightwing took a deep breath and looked at the woman with carefully veiled fury. “Her name is Gretchen Whistler and she is head of the psychiatric ward at Blackgate Penitentiary. She is also a collaborator of the Joker.”

That made the doctor whine in muffled protest. Donna bristled. Joker was well-known, even outside of Gotham. All men had darkness in their hearts, but Joker’s heart was _made_ of darkness. Donna had met demons, devils, and fallen war gods who were less murderous, less sadistic than the Clown Prince of Crime had been. The rumors of his return were... concerning... to say the least.

“Unfortunately,” Nightwing continued, “she is also an expert liar. She’s been masquerading as a perfectly upstanding citizen for at least four years. Now she’s in charge of treating Scarecrow.” Another name that rang a bell. It was hard to forget a man who had tried to cover half a continent in fear gas and watch people kill themselves or each other in panic. Nightwing was not done yet, though. “Unfortunately, she also knows the identity of one of our flock.”

“Everyone knows the identity of one of your ‘flock’,” Donna corrected. “The broadcast was hard to miss.”

“I’m not talking about Batman.” Nightwing took a deep breath. The look he shot the doctor was one of distilled hatred and disgust. “I’m talking about Robin.” Not a single flicker of recognition hushed across the doctor’s face. If anything at all, she looked even more confused. Nightwing was clearly not buying it. “Several years ago, Joker captured Robin. He locked him up, right here,” he gestured at the hall around them, “right here on this island. Dr. Whistler here was working at Arkham back then. Joker’s main mole. One day, she recognized Robin from a picture Joker had taken and identified him by his real name. We have reason to believe that she is trying to forward that information to Scarecrow.”

“What good would information on a dead boy do to Scarecrow?”

Donna’s brow furrowed into a frown. Having killed Robin had been one of Joker’s greatest boasts, and while the clown was known to make tasteless jokes, and while there had clearly been a Robin aiding Batman while Joker had been making those claims, something had told Donna that he was telling the truth. It had been all every crook from Gotham to Metropolis had been talking about for weeks.

“He’s not dead,” Nightwing finally admitted through gritted teeth and the surprise must have been easy to read on her face, because he reacted immediately. “I know. Hard to believe. _We_ believed him to be dead for _years_. Joker... Joker even sent us video footage of how he shot him. It hasn’t been too long since we have found out that he survived.” Suddenly, the sadness was gone from his voice, replaced instantly by almost brotherly worry. “Donna, he is only just starting to rebuild his life. He doesn’t deserve to be victim to yet another deranged psychopath!”

“You love him.” It was clear in the way he pleaded with her, in the sincerity running beneath his words, in the intensity of his stare. “You love him like a brother.”

“He _is_ my brother.” Nightwing shook his head and gave a short laugh. “He’d probably scowl at me for saying it, but he is part of our flock, part of our family. He always was. He always will be. He’s my little brother. I need to keep him safe.”

Donna nodded. “I can’t wipe the memory of his name or face from her mind.”

“No, but you can make her tell us who else knows.”

A smile flashed over her lips. “Yes, that I can do.”

Donna unbuckled the lasso from her belt, ran the silver thread around the doctor’s bare right hand three times and pulled hard, before closing her eyes and taking deep breaths. This was a woman who was trained to deal with the most murderous, psychotic killers in all of Gotham, a woman who had managed to fool crowds of co-workers, law enforcement officers and other people with sufficient understanding of human lies for years. She would have to be strong. Stronger than her. She would have to be perfect. Only once she was sure she was fully centered did she give Nightwing a quick nod to signal her readiness.

He removed the gag quickly and the doctor gulped for air shortly before turning her pleading eyes to Donna. Between the accent and the fear – or at the very least the feint thereof – her words were difficult to make out.

“I don’t know what he is talking about! Please let me go! I want to go home to my family! Please! I am scared.”

Donna pulled hard and narrowed her eyes.

“Did you tell Joker the name of the Robin he captured – yes or no?” The woman kept on stammering. Donna pulled again. “I _command_ you to tell me if you told Joker the name of Robin!”

“Yes.”

The word rolled from the woman’s lips slowly, heavy as lead, and horror crept onto her face as her tongue revealed secrets her mind had been determined to hide. Donna could feel the push of Dr. Whistler’s mind against her own, but she would not relent. Amazons did not relent.

“I _command_ you to name everyone you told!”

“Joker.” She swallowed hard in between words. “Harley Quinn.”

“I command you to tell me if you told anyone else!”

“No one.”

“No one?” Donna tugged harder. “Not even Scarecrow?”

Suddenly, the look in the doctor’s eyes went from horrified fear to cold-blooded murder. “Not yet.”

 _Not yet_. Nightwing had been right. This woman was trying to kill Robin. Slowly and painfully. If she had Raven here with her, with her empathic abilities, she would probably tell Donna that there was nothing but ice in this woman’s heart. With a soft sigh, Donna loosened her hold on the whip and turned to Nightwing once more.

“I can make her tell me, but I cannot make her forget. What are you planning to do with her now?”

“I don’t know.” Nightwing sounded adequately displeased. “We have been contemplating a number of... options. We will figure something out.”

That made her laugh. He really was a child. “Nightwing, really? Here I thought you had understood that Batman’s fatal flaw was to never ask for nor accept help! You do not need to do everything by yourself.”

“You know a way.”

“I know a _someone_ ,” Donna corrected. The confusion mirrored on his face almost broke her heart and she took one hand off her whip to cup his cheek. “You are not alone in this fight, Nightwing. None of you are. There are many people who would gladly help you and the other defenders of Gotham, if only you _asked_ for it.” The concept seemed to be utterly alien to him. Either that or his wounded ego did not allow him to do more than shrug his shoulders. Regardless, Donna set out to remove the lasso, only to be stopped by the feather-light touch of his fingers against her arm.

“Wait, Wonderg—Donna.” He cleared his throat. “Since you are already here: can we ask her one more question, please?” Donna smiled and tightened the lasso once more. “Maybe she knows who this new Joker is.”

“What do you mean _‘who this new Joker is’_?”

Now Donna was confused, although watching Nightwing flinch at the sound of his own voice coming from her throat gave her the usual spark of amusement that came with that little trick and it helped soften the blow. To his credit, Nightwing recovered quickly enough.

“Well, the real Joker was burned to cinders. He is very definitely dead. Dead men don’t usually come back from the great beyond.”

Donna laughed at that. _Oh, these mortal children!_ “Not usually, no,” Donna admitted. “That doesn’t mean it is impossible, but if the thought of the irreversibility of death makes you sleep better, I won’t explain to you the dozens of ways the universe can take that security from you.” She tightened her grip and pulled harder once more.

“I command you to tell me who the new Joker is.”

“He is Joker.” The doctor seemed honestly confused. As far as Donna could tell, there was no betrayal in her mind. “He is just... Joker. I don’t know his real name. No one does.”

“I believe she is telling the truth.” Donna held the grip and the gaze for a while longer, but when Dr. Whistler still made no move to amend her statement, she finally loosened her hold on the lasso. Saying that she was not the least bit disappointed would have been a lie and so she resolved to tell Nightwing the truth. “If the ‘new’ Joker is not actually ‘the’ Joker, then she does not know any more than you already do. I am sorry.”

“Don’t be.” There was a tinge of disappointment in Nightwing’s voice, but most of all, there was exhaustion. Donna was not surprised. Not when he clearly cared so deeply about someone who was in as much danger as the former Robin. “So where exactly do you plan on taking her?”

“Zatanna’s.”

Donna started rolling up her lasso once more while Nightwing gagged Gretchen Whistler, and untied her from her chair. He readjusted her restraints in less than a minute, leaving her just as helpless as she had been before, with the exception that she was now standing on her own two feet. Donna mustered her quickly from head to toe.

“Zatanna is a good friend and a powerful magician. She will be able to pinpoint the memories of Robin and erase them from her mind without causing any further damage. After that, I will drop her off at the Gotham City Police Department. It won’t take more than a day.”

Nightwing seemed to mull it over for a minute, but there was something else to his hesitation as well. It was almost as if he was listening for something and she supposed that made sense, too. Most likely, the bats had their own little communication network and everyone else was pitching in their opinion on whether this was an acceptable way to end this meeting. Eventually the thinly pressed line of his mouth relaxed just a little.

“Very well. But she needs to be back by tomorrow night.”

Donna laughed. “Not a unanimous vote, was it?”

Nightwing returned the laugh and she was once again surprised by just how _young_ he sounded and how crazy and yet impressive it was that a simple mortal without any powers, like him, would do this to himself on a nightly basis.

“No, not unanimous, but at least this time it was democratic. Three to one. Four to one, if we count me. Objection overruled. You may take her.”

“Always count yourself,” Donna admonished as she tucked her lasso back onto her belt and slung the doctor over her shoulders. She weighed practically nothing. “You know what you are doing, Nightwing. The fact that you know when to call for outside help does not diminish your own achievements. Your opinion, your life, matters no more and _no less_ than anybody else’s.”

“I’ll keep it in mind, Donna.” The slightly embarrassed laugh he gave her in return proved that he had not quite accepted that truth yet, that he had not yet dared to let go of those last few reservations Batman had drilled into him, but there was hope. Donna could feel it. “Thank you, Donna. For everything.”

“It was my pleasure.” She took a deep breath and braced herself for another marathon. It was a bit of a longer run from Arkham to the House of Mystery, but nothing she couldn’t handle, even with the additional weight. “I know we are technically even now, Nightwing, but please, don’t hesitate to call, should you need my help again.”

He nodded slightly and took a step back. With one last blink, Donna braced and broke into her run, leaving the Asylum far behind.

***

Dick slammed the door shut hard and stalked off to the shower the moment he entered his room. Sometimes he wanted to murder Bruce.

Okay. Maybe not murder. But definitely beat over the head with something thick enough to match his skull.

He shrugged out of his suit as he went along and ditched it just where the carpet ended and the tiles began. The water was instantly hot and clear and cleansing, but it didn’t help nearly as much as he had hoped.

Trying to get Bruce to agree to let an outsider intervene had been a doomed venture from the very start. Bruce had brought his usual arguments, of course – that it was their responsibility to deal with, not anyone else’s, that it involved too much sensitive information to trust an outsider with, that it would, at the very least, require kidnapping and/or assaulting a woman, who could not yet be reliably tied to any crime, that relying on someone else to do their job for them would lead to a potentially fatal dependency down the line.

While some of that was reasonable paranoia, most of it was the usual bullshit Dick had heard so often. It was Bruce’s typical deflection, his almost desperate attempt to pretend that everything was fine, his insane need to control everything and everything around him, and the insistence that he wouldn’t need anyone because he was perfectly fine, thank you very much, and, God, was it a load of bull!

He stayed in the shower until his skin was starting to turn pink and the heat did nothing to ease his fury.

Arguments between him and Bruce never ended well, or at the very least they hadn’t in many, many years. As a matter of fact, if it hadn’t been for Tim, Barb, _and_ Alfred backing him up, it would probably have come down to the same result it usually did – both of them stalking off, quietly fuming, with nothing resolved and nothing gained. Just the thought of it made his skin crawl. Instead, he and the others had made it very clear to Bruce that this was going to happen, with or without his consent, and if he didn’t want to get forcibly removed from the operation, he’d either have to stay out of it or fall in line.

With any luck, Bruce was going to talk to any one of them again... in about a month or two. It was hard to tell. Bruce’s ego bruised easily, he could hold grudges forever, and faked death had not really improved his general disposition.

_At least it’s over now._

Dick took comfort in that as he turned off the shower and let his forehead rest against the steam-covered tiles. They had the information they had wanted and by tomorrow night Gretchen Whistler would have forgotten Jason’s face and name. He turned around to grab a towel and make his way to his bed, only to freeze on the spot.

Speak of the devil and he’ll come and get you.

Of course, Dick hadn’t been able to hear or see him come into the room, what with all the steam and the noise from the shower, but even so, Jason looked like he had just fricking apparated into the room, like he had plopped into existence like some weird version of Schroedinger’s cat, like that chair had been in the room for hours and so had he. The fact that he sat quiet and unmoving as a rock did not make it any easier. After a good dozen seconds of what felt like eternity, Dick’s brain finally snapped back into gear.

_Breathe. Towel. Question._

He did it in that exact order, taking a deep breath, reaching for the nearest towel and wrapping it around his waist clumsily, before forcing a smile onto his face.

“Jason. Didn’t hear you enter. What’s up?”

Jason, for all it was worth, remained unmoving for a couple more seconds before giving him a scathing sneer to perfectly contradict his smile.

“You know, sometimes I wanna punch you in your fucking perfect, handsome face?”

Dick flinched. His first instinct was to snap ‘shouldn’t have rolled into the fricking bathroom unannounced’ back at him, but he thankfully managed to swallow that little gem of miscommunication before it got to his tongue. He was about ninety percent sure that his face was not the problem and that Jason already regretted coming here. There was no point in driving the nails in any deeper. Maybe someday, when Jason was better, Dick would be able to crack a joke about physical appearances just like that without making it hit like a bomb, but they weren’t there yet.

Thankfully, someone – Tim, Barb, most likely Alfred – had had the foresight to hang a bath robe on the wall opposite of the sink, and he put it on quickly. Watching Jason relax just a little almost instantaneously was not surprising. Neither was his own immediate sense of increased security, even though he now felt like what he imagined Thanksgiving turkeys commonly experienced once in the oven. With a quick sigh, Dick sat down on the edge of the bathtub.

“I don’t suppose you came in here with the intention of punching me, did you?”

“Depends on your answer.” He had hoped bringing himself to eye level would make Jason more relaxed, but it didn’t. Instead, his little brother crossed his arms defiantly in front of his chest. “What exactly happened tonight, to have you guys stick me on a second-rate case?”

“Excuse me?” Dick feigned innocence. It didn’t work. Apparently, Jason had spent the last few years mastering Bruce’s blank look of ever-growing annoyance.

“I’m not stupid, dickhead.” Clearly he had not yet mastered the _blank_ tone of ever-growing annoyance. Dick thanked the Lord. “Something happened after I dropped off comms yesterday.” Jason’s eyes narrowed the moment Dick opened his mouth to speak. “And don’t try to give me some cock and bull story about how it was nothing and it was just Bruce having his cowl up his ass again. I may have spent the rest of the night in the gym, but I did look up the files Barb accessed after you’d all gone to sleep. So, what’s happening? You going for Scarecrow next?”

 _What?_ He wanted to speak, but somehow his vocal chords refused to produce any sound.

“Won’t blame you, if you do,” Jason continued. “He’s almost as bad as Joker and in contrast to that bastard he is still alive. For now.”

“Jason, killing the new Joker was an accident.” He felt his knuckles whiten as his fingers dug into the bathrobe. “I hadn’t intended to beat him _that_ hard! I snapped. It was a mistake. It’s not gonna happen again. Not with Scarecrow. Not with anyone.”

“Whatever.” Jason rolled his eyes at him, as if he were talking to a particularly training-resistant puppy. “Still, why the in-depth study of Whistler’s therapy sessions with him? Why stick me on some random case about disappearances in Blüdhaven, rather than let me help dig up dirt on the old hag? What is it that none of you are telling me?”

Dick swallowed hard. He had known that those questions would come up, sooner or later. It was the second fight they had had, right after finally agreeing to call in Wonder Girl. Bruce had voted to tell him absolutely nothing, of course. Dick had voted to tell him everything, as frankly and directly as possible. He had known it would have major downsides, as Tim and Barb had quickly pointed out. He had known it would put both Dr. Whistler and Scarecrow, possibly even Harley, right at the top of Jason’s hit list, and the fact that he was currently stuck in the manor, in a wheel chair, was only a minor consolation, just as it would only be a minor hindrance to Jason. Just like Bruce, he could carry grudges forever and he would not rest until the issue had been resolved.

In Jason’s case, permanently.

He tried to get up to fetch a glass of water for his dry throat, only to have Jason heave one of his cast-covered legs onto the rim of the bathtub.

“You’re not going anywhere until you’ve told me.” Jason followed his quick, hushed gaze at the door and deepened his scowl. “And I swear to fucking hell, if you try to vault over my leg and get the fuck out of here, I _will_ tackle you. There’ll be blood on these tiles and I won’t give a fuck.”

“You _are_ the kind of person who’d risk a couple more broken limbs just over something like this,” Dick mused over a slight laugh. Judging from the grim look on his face, Jason did not find it funny. Dick bit his lip. “If I tell you, will you promise me not to go after anyone involved?”

“No.”

 _He doesn’t even sound the least bit sorry about it_ , Dick thought as he studied Jason’s face. The scowl was gone, replaced instead by a look that was neutral and non-descriptive enough to make a blank sheet of paper look like an Edvard Munch painting. The message was simple. Jason did not make promises he could not keep and – for better of for worse – not killing people was included in that list. It bothered him. A lot. Dick felt the spark of fury dance around happily in his stomach and he wished Bruce was there to see it, to understand that the two of them were actually very much on the same page regarding Jason’s more... lethal tendencies. Dick didn’t like them. He didn’t condone them.

He also knew that he could not, nor should not, control anyone else’s actions, but his own. That was where he differed from Bruce.

“Gretchen Whistler was the one who told Joker your name.” Jason bristled. Dick didn’t care. He had to finish this before the over-cautious part of his mind would kick in and stop him. He could already see Barb and Tim facepalming in his mind.

“He showed her your picture and she recognized you from the papers. And trust me: your face was on every tabloid from here to Metropolis for a good month. It was kind of hard to miss. She probably figured out that you were the Arkham Knight, too, because she didn’t start egging Crane on in that direction until three weeks ago, when the papers got wind of you being back in Gotham. I knew we had to do something before she could spread the story, so I called in some help. Someone who could get the truth out of her. Turns out she also knew a way to delete that memory from Whistler’s brain, although that was more of a lucky break for us. By tomorrow night, Whistler will be back in Gotham, no worse for wear, except for a few holes in her memories. We’re still going to dig into her connection to Joker, of course. I’m sure Barb will eventually find _something_ that will help us get her fired and put in jail. But this was an emergency and we needed to deal with it immediately.”

Jason gave a small laugh. The brand on his face warped the accompanying grin into something halfway murderous. “Bruce couldn’t have been happy.”

“Bruce is never happy,” Dick countered. “He revoked all his seniority privileges the night he blew up the manor and disappeared on us, though. We’ve spent the last year cleaning up his mess. He doesn’t get to come back and boss us around now.”

He didn’t answer, but at the very least, Jason moved his leg off the bath tub again. Dick took the opportunity while it lasted and dashed out of the bath room, grabbed the water bottle from the nightstand, and downed it all in one go. By the time he was done, Jason was waiting for him in the doorway.

“I didn’t promise.”

“I know.”

Dick grimaced as he picked up his suit and stored it away in the compartment hidden behind the lowest shelf in the closet, then started brushing out his hair. He needed a damn cut. And a night of good sleep. And a new job. And a new apartment. The thought that he had been mooching off Tim’s and Barb’s hospitality voluntarily, just as much as Jason had done it involuntarily, suddenly sprang to the forefront of his mind with ugly clarity.

“You told me anyway.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

Dick paused. It was a good question. The bat inside of him told him to give some cock-and-bull excuse or, even better, to simply tell Jason to go and get some sleep. The brother inside him felt repulsed just thinking about it.

“Because I’m tired of lying. And because I trust you, Jay.” He caught Jason’s surprise and the snapping remark just before it transformed into an actual comment and held up his hand quickly. “I know, I know. Hard to believe. You think I’m kidding. But I’m not. I think you’re fuming right now. I know you want that woman’s head on a spike, right now. I also think that, two weeks from now, when you’ll finally be able to walk on your own two feet again, Whistler will be in jail and we’ll have bigger issues. I mean, we always do, right?”

Jason was silent and the absence of noise hung over the room like a black cloud. He was half-certain that Jason was simply going to leave, so he could brood in the silence of his own room, when a USB stick landed in his lap. Dick raised his eyebrows, first at the stick, then at Jason. His brother shrugged.

“That fucking second-rate case you put me on. You are dealing with two different perps, active in both cities. One of them dumps the bodies randomly, the other has a pattern. It forms an ‘R’ on a combined map of Gotham and Blüd. You can tell them apart by the traces of ethyl acetate and nitrocellulose found on the clothing of the random one.”

 _Ethyl acetate and nitrocellulose..._ “Nail polish?”

“Nail polish,” Jason confirmed. “Also, Blüdhaven coast guards found Crocs burning remains in a boat floating along the Narrows Strait earlier this evening. Full autopsy is outstanding, but apparently someone bashed in his face with enough force to shatter his entire skull.” He turned his wheel chair around and was almost at the door when he looked back one more time.

“Next time you see Wonder Woman, do give her my thanks.”


	29. The Light At The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason's long recovery stay at the manor has finally come to an end, but of course the universe could not let him go without kicking him in the balls first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter is looooooooooooooooooong. Dear god, I was so tempted to turn this into two chapters, but I couldn't wait to get Jason out of the manor. At last. Yay! That only took 17 chapters...
> 
> Most intense Google search for this chapter: healing periods for various injuries, especially burns.
> 
> For status updates, writing trivia, fandom/fanfiction/writing related questions and occasional random ramblings, please visit my tumblr: http://lananiscorner.tumblr.com/

Dick had been right. Jason didn’t like to admit it, but Dick had been right.

It was precisely half past ten when the GCPD station on Bleake Island logged the arrival of a certain tall, dark-haired woman in a suit that looked like someone had taken the star-spangled sky and woven it into a leotard, and one Dr. Gretchen Whistler, who had been reported missing just an hour before by her dearest husband. According to the logs, she had minor abrasions and contusions on her wrists and ankles, which supported the theory of a kidnapping, but was otherwise physically unharmed. She had no memory of anything that had happened to her over the last thirty hours, either, but everyone was happy to chalk that up to post-traumatic stress and move on with processing her. Wondergirl, for her part, or ‘Donna’ as Dick had called her, had not spoken a word, merely delivering her to the police before leaving them in a cloud of dust, wondering if she had ever been there, had it not been for the security cameras in the corner.

It wasn’t until the beginning of Dr. Whistler’s morning shift at Blackgate that they got confirmation that Dick’s – Donna’s – plan had actually worked.

Jason watched, one hand holding the latest protein shake that Alfred had prepared for him, the other holding a pen with which he transcribed the conversation in little scribbles that would likely look like nonsense to anyone else, as Gretchen Whistler sat down to talk to Scarecrow. Even now, fifteen months later, the sight of that ripped apart and cobbled back together face made his skin crawl. He had not hoped to see that ugly head again except through the scope of his sniper rifle.

The conversation started harmlessly enough, a greeting, an inquiry about Crane’s general status – _sadly still alive_ , Jason thought with disdain – before descending into discussions of his actions on October 31st, 2015. Scarecrow sneered at her from the other side of the bullet-proof glass.

“Arkham Knight...”

“We are not here to talk about him,” Gretchen said calm as ever, her accent still thick and grating. The old hag may have been a mole for Joker and someone who apparently both wanted him dead and had the means to arrange it, but Jason had to give credit where credit was due. It took balls of steel to go back to interviewing Scarecrow not even a day after getting abducted. “We are here to talk about you, Mr. Crane.”

“Batman’s fallen ally.”

Jason bristled. He knew Crane had made that deduction by himself on that dreadful Halloween. His voice had been dripping with satisfaction as he had rubbed it in Bruce’s face. Jason had been too busy cowering in the arch over the destroyed bridge leading to ACE Chem, desperately trying to find a reason to go on doing anything when Scarecrow’s voice had slithered through the comms. The little taunt had completely passed him by, back then, and while he now remembered that it had happened, he didn’t remember the full wording. He wanted to kick himself for his lapse of attention in hindsight.

“The Arkham Knight tried to kill Batman,” Dr. Whistler explained calmly. There was the slightest hint of confusion in her voice. “The Commissioner said he later saved him at the Asylum, but that doesn’t mean they were allies before.”

The shift in Scarecrow’s behavior was subtle, but it was there. Jason put away the protein shake and zoomed into the picture of the hijacked camera feed more closely. Crane wasn’t shaking quite as much anymore and his right hand had started curling around the cuff of his left sleeve. In the ruin of his face, his eyes had gone from darting left and right relentlessly to slow, methodical movement.

“Batman’s ally. Before.” His voice had devolved into a low growl and Jason shuddered. He had heard that tone before. It never boded well. “Before. You know. You _know_.”

“I don’t.”

“You said. You know.” Every word was like a nail, hammered into a coffin. Jason cringed as he drew upon months of investigative training, analyzing every muscle that moved in Crane’s face (at least as far as he could tell – there wasn’t much left to work with). It almost seemed as if the words pained him, as if the effort of trying to form a coherent sentence of more than three words was over-taxing Scarecrow’s fear-gas-damaged mind. His voice was thin as paper. “Your theory. You have... a theory.”

“Everyone has their theories about the Arkham Knight,” Dr. Whistler countered with the same hesitant attempt at keeping the peace that she had once displayed with Waylon Jones, when he had asked her if she could make him normal again. It hadn’t worked then. Jason had a distinct feeling that it wasn’t going to work now. “I never claimed to know who was behind that mask.”

Technically, Whistler was right. Jason thought back to the countless interview types he had watched. Her manipulation of Scarecrow’s damaged mind had been subtle and she had certainly had enough smarts not to flat out say something as compromising as ‘I know the Arkham Knight’s real name’ on camera and tape. As a matter of fact, Jason was fairly certain she had never done more than just barely hint at the idea that her own theories might be more concrete, more knowledgeable than anybody else’s. An ordinary patient might have missed it completely.

Unfortunately for Gretchen Whistler, Scarecrow was not an ordinary patient.

Jason clocked the lunge about half a second before it happened. Once upon a time, when he had still been a kid in Crime Alley, correctly anticipating an incoming attack had been half experience in fighting, half gut instinct. Bruce had sharpened both into actual usefulness. The Arkham Knight had turned them into deadliness. It was the calm before the storm, the minute tensing of every fiber in Crane’s body that gave him away just before he jumped from his chair and reached for the pen. Jason didn’t flinch as Scarecrow rammed it straight through her hand, then put it next to her carotid artery. The guards flung open the door and rushed in, but one look at the madman with the pen pressed against the doctor’s throat had them frozen on the spot.

“You will... tell me... Gretchen.”

For a moment, she seemed paralyzed. Then, as if a black cloud had lifted, every muscle in her face went relaxed and serene. Jason bristled. He knew that feeling.

“I would, if I could.” Her voice had all the urgency of an old lady shopping for groceries. “I would tell you, if I could, Jonathan. But I can’t. So I won’t.”

Scarecrow hesitated. Maybe it was a lingering effect of the fear gas. Maybe he was merely trying to puzzle out whether she was lying. Regardless, the two seconds it gave were enough for one of the armed guards to shoot him in the shoulder. He dropped the pen with a loud howl and got a bullet to the other shoulder for his trouble. Gretchen Whistler gave one puzzled look at her patient as he lay on the floor, writhing in pain and a growing puddle of his own blood, then got up slowly, stepped to the side and watched on quietly as the guards restrained Crane and radioed for the medical team. By the time Scarecrow had been tied to a stretcher and escorted from the room, Whistler was still standing off to the side, watching the room with an almost serene look on her face.

“Damn...”

Dick walked up on his left side slowly, one eye on the screen, the other on Jason, undoubtedly looking for clues as to when he had crossed the invisible line of personal space and was about to get punched in the face. Jason nearly scoffed at it, but that would only have been more oil for the fire.

“Didn’t know she had it in her,” Dick finally continued. “She was so freaked out when Donna made her tell us... I would have thought she’d be an incoherent mess, begging for her life in front of Scarecrow.”

“You seem uncharacteristically okay with that...” Jason mused over another sip from his shake. “Who’s crawling around the vents this time? Ghost? Robin?”

“Both.”

“Figures.”

On screen, Gretchen Whistler finally took a deep breath. Whatever nervousness she had not displayed before seemed to come back to her with a sudden nauseating punch to the gut and she fled from the room as fast as her legs could carry her.

“Perhaps she was just in shock.” Dick’s gaze darted to the half-finished omelet sitting on Jason’s breakfast plate, then back to the video. “Can’t really blame her. Scarecrow’s about as psycho as they come.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I should never have worked with him. How could I? What the hell was I thinking? How stupid—“

“Jason!” He tried not to flinch and settled for a sharp glare instead. They had played this game before. Dick sighed deeply and shook his head. “Jason. Stop. Please. I’m not holding that against you. You know I’m not.”

 _Of course you don’t. And fire is wet and the sky is green_. “Yes, you are. So am I. Scarecrow’s not the fucking problem here, though.”

“Neither are you.”

He scowled hard and took another swig from the milkshake. It was almost empty and somehow that only soured Jason’s mood. “The fucking problem is Joker.”

“Joker?” Despite having changed out of his suit already, Dick was back in Nightwing mode in an instant. Out with the fatigue and the smiles, in with the alertness and the scowls. “Why Joker? I mean, I know she works for him, but he’s been off the radar since he... got lost... on his way from Blüdhaven General to Blackgate.”

Despite his best attempts, Jason felt his scowl soften just a little. ‘Got lost’ was really just Dick Grayson code for ‘my corrupt as hell BPD ex-colleagues let the most dangerous and volatile psychopath in both cities slip right out from underneath their fingers and I could neither stop it, nor can I prove it’. Dick liked to blame himself for everything under the sun – another unfortunate lesson he had learned from Bruce and that Jason very much wanted to smash Ghost’s teeth in for – but the fact that he had once worn BPD blue only made it harder. As a matter of fact, now that he thought about it, Jason noticed that he was wearing those same, bare-thread BPD boxers and shirt again. Jason scoffed at the fabric.

“You should really replace those rags, you know.”

“They are not rags, Jason,” Dick argued almost indignantly, before his tone softened into that usual, half-dreamy, sappy nostalgia he was so fond of. Jason wanted to hurl. “I’m not gonna say BPD was the best choice or the best time of my life, but I did enjoy some of it and this is the only part of the outfit I got to keep.”

“They’re a bunch of rags that would make for awesome kindling and nothin’ else.” Slowly, Dick’s lips stretched into a wide grin. Jason shuddered. “Don’t go all Cheshire on me. Nothin’ I said here was funny.”

“Maybe not funny.” Dick grabbed a chair from the other side of the table and sat down facing the back rest, his arms crossed leisurely over the smooth wood. “But this is the first time in a while that I’ve heard you speak in your old Gotham accent. First time since you were Robin, really.” The grin opened, revealing those very punchable, picture-perfect teeth. “Not as cute as your blushing, though.”

“Cuter than a grin with half your teeth missing,” Jason lobbed back at him as he reached for the plate with the remaining half of his breakfast. Dick was still eyeing it like a hungry magpie. “Go to bed before your fatigue makes you do something really stupid.”

“Like teasing my little, badass, ex-PMC brother?”

“It’s not funny,” Jason grumbled out in between two bites of omelet that suddenly had all the tastiness of a fistful of ash. Judging from the way the smile slowly slid off Dick’s face, he knew he had crossed a line. Jason doubted he had any inkling of how much baggage truly came with it.

“So what about Joker?” Dick finally tried once more after a long and awkward pause in which Jason did his best to assassinate the omelet with his fork. “What makes you think he’s the problem here? Whistler no longer knows your name. It’s not like she can tell him.”

“Exactly. But if she’s working with Joker, then why bother with Scarecrow in the first place?”

He dropped the fork and reached for the keyboard, bringing up the casefile with a few quick taps. If Dick had had any motivation to finish his breakfast, the image of Marie Wilson’s body splattered all over the yard in front of the church had just killed it. Jason forced the remaining bits and pieces of his omelet down his throat and drowned them with the remaining milkshake.

“That’s Marie Wilson, age twenty-three, intern on Blackgate’s Medical Ward.”

“The girl who was supposed to give Harley a fatal dose of fenadryl,” Dick recalled. Jason nodded.

“And to be ‘responsible’ for her death because she ‘forgot’ to mention the allergy in her file, yes. Gretchen Whistler was supposed to frame that girl for murder, but Harley’s still alive, right?”

“Yes. And that’s a good thing,” Dick added quickly. “Joker’s obviously not in a good mood right now.”

“Understatement.” Jason sighed. “Fifteen months, Dick. I spent fifteen months with the damn bastard. What Scarecrow brewed up for Gotham on Halloween? That’s magic fairy dust to the son of a bitch. And he’s not the only one. There are hundreds of people out there who’d kill to get their hands on the stuff. I should know. I worked for one of the fuckers.”

The memories were still etched into his mind. The two girls with their real curves and fake smiles. The needle in her arm. The unholy screaming from her mouth as her world had warped into madness. The laughter of the men around her. And him, standing in the middle, unable to do anything about it, except shoot every fucking thing that moved, including her. Compared to her, Malu had had a fucking easy night. And he didn’t even know the other girl’s name.

“People would kill for this stuff, but Scarecrow doesn’t share his toys. What he gave the Butcher was watered down piss compared to his latest batch. So, if you were a maniacal psychopath looking for a way to get a chemical formula from a guy who’s too sociopathic to torture and too baked out of his mind to scare, what would you do?”

“I’d try to offer him something of equal value in return...”

“Like the name of the man who betrayed him, spoiled his greatest triumph, and was ultimately responsible for turning him into a nervous wreck. Yes.” Jason rewound the video and hit ‘play’ once Whistler’s excuse started. “Watch her body language. You can see the moment she realizes she doesn’t have the information he wants. She freaks out for a moment, covers it up, ever the psychologist, and tries to keep on going, but Scarecrow isn’t fooled. He’s a shrink, too. He knows the tricks. He just keeps on prying.” The video reached the point of the attack and Jason slowed it down to half speed.

“Watch her face. She’s scared for maybe two seconds. Then she surrenders and becomes completely limb, like she’s already detached herself from all this. Why? Because she knows that Scarecrow jamming a fucking pen into her throat is not the worst way that she can go. Not when she’s working with the Joker. And trust me, I know what he’s capable off when he’s out for punishment.”

He watched on quietly as the shots were fired, the nurses came in, and Dr. Whistler was once more alone in the room. Her sudden departure looked even more abrupt on screen.

“She knows she fucked up, Dick, and this time she doesn’t know how to fix it. She has led Scarecrow on this wild goose chase and she doesn’t remember where the fuck she was leading him in the first place.”

“Oh God...” Dick’s face fell with his voice. “We might as well just have pulled a trigger on her.”

“Wouldn’t have been a loss.” He caught the nasty look to his left long before it turned into words and held up his hand quickly. “Spare me the sermon, Dick. You’d be wasting your breath. That woman was Joker’s mole for years. I don’t give a fuck if she lives. I won’t dance on her grave, if she doesn’t, but she’s had it coming a long time. Honestly, if you guys find enough dirt to put her in jail for life, she’ll have hit the jackpot.”

“ _Us guys_?” Dick raised an eyebrow. “You’re not helping Barb and Tim dig?”

“Neither are you,” Jason lobbed back at him, although it was an empty insult. They both knew Nightwing was needed in the field. “I just told you: I don’t give a fuck if she lives. You know what I do give a fuck about? Joker’s plan B.”

He brought up another casefile and watched Dick flinch as the crime scene thumbnails popped up on screen. Each death trap had been worse than the last, each body more mangled than the other. That wasn’t the problem though.

“That’s the case I asked you to look after for me.”

“Yes.”

“You think it’s related?”

Jason gave one last look at the latest photo. There had barely been enough left for an ID. Humans were not supposed to look like sawdust. “I hope not.” He turned the laptop off and mustered Dick once more. He looked even more tired than before, if that was even humanly possible. Perhaps it was the evident, acute case of ‘oh crap – shit just got worse’ that had obviously rattled him.

“You look like hell, Dick. Go get some sleep.”

“What?” Ever the perfect diva, Dick’s eyelashes practically danced as he blinked the sleep out of his eyes. “No, I’m good, really. I wasn’t gonna go to sleep soon anyway.”

“You’re in your pajamas.”

“Boxers and shirt,” Dick corrected with a pout. “And very comfortable ones for research work, whether you believe it or not.”

“I don’t care if they’re made of fucking Egyptian cotton and cashmere and angel feathers,” Jason lobbed back at him. “You’re in your fucking PJs and if you don’t go to bed right now, I’m gonna carry you there.”

“You still have both legs in casts, Jason,” Dick pointed out as his eyes narrowed. “You’re not carrying anyone anywhere.”

“Oh, yeah?”

He shifted forward quickly, placing his left foot as firmly on the ground as he could. Dick jumped from his seat almost instantaneously and pushed him back. His eyes were wide as saucers.

“Mother of—Jason you’re still healing! Don’t do that!!”

“Left cast is coming off tonight,” Jason reminded him over a grin of his own. “Right one probably could, too, if you weren’t all such fucking paranoid cowards about a bunch of titanium screws and a plate. You think I can’t fucking walk? Because I can show you walk...”

“ _I_ think you are both idiots.” From the door to the hall, Barbara shook her head at both of them. Dick was the first one she turned, too, and Jason felt strangely vindicated and mischievously satisfied at the idea that he was going to get the brunt of it. “Jason’s right, Dick. It’s been a long night. You should go to bed.”

“But—“

“Now.”

There was no arguing with Barbara. Not when her voice had become cold, unforgiving steel. Jason watched carefully as Dick all but shambled towards the door, only turning around once to wish both of them a good night, before disappearing down the hall. Barbara craned her neck to shout after him.

“I’ll know if you cheated!”

It would have been funny, had it not been for the towel flung straight at his head ten seconds later. Jason caught the fabric and inspected it carefully. It was his gym towel, grey, rough, and with the slightly salty smell of sweat clinging to every inch. Barbara scowled at him from the doorway.

“You’re late for your training. And if you even so much as talk about walking in casts again, I’m cutting your gym privileges indefinitely.”

Jason laughed. “Yeah... indefinitely _for two weeks_! I’m not staying forever, remember?”

“No.” Barb sounded almost sad as she turned to leave. “You’re not.”

***

Barbara had been right. Jason didn’t like to admit it, but Barb had been right.

He had been late for his training and he had spent the rest of the morning and a good chunk of noon making up for it. By the time he was done, the muscles in his arms were on fire and his left side was itching as if he had an army of ants crawling under his skin. He had gone to bed with the distinct wish to cut everything between his left ribs and his hips out of his body and had only fallen asleep after a solid hour of meditations.

By the time Alfred came to wake him, he had already woken up and fallen back under six times, cleaned his room, re-sorted the clothes Barb and Tim had bought for him, and defragged and backed up his laptop.

The infirmary was just as uninviting as last time and Jason eyed the oscillating saw with undisguised disgust. He would never get used to those things, to the sight of rapidly spinning metal teeth and the sound of... well he imagined at least one of the circles of hell sounded like that. He glanced at the calendar hanging by the door and scowled at the two marks in red. Two hurdles to go and one of them would be cleared today. That was the upside.

_Focus on the upside, Jason. You’ll be on your feet again. Well, one foot at least._

That was if the x-ray scans were right. Jason grimaced as Tim spread them out on the nearby clipboard. The tibia of his left leg looked flawless and so did his ribs. However, just below the healed arches of bone, tiny irregularities spoiled the picture, like small pebbles stuck underneath his skin.

“Please tell me those aren’t miniature tumors.”

“They are not miniature tumors,” Tim parroted back at him. “They are part of the mesh we used to re-grow your muscles and they should be all cleared up two weeks from now. Though I guess we’d better take you to Wayne Plaza again, so Miranda can inspect your wound and the scans herself to give you the final all clear.”

“Yeah, great idea...” Jason groaned into the palms of his hand. That was just what he needed. As if their first meeting hadn’t been embarrassing enough for him. “You know there are people you really only wish to see once in your life, right?”

“I think the butterflies in your stomach would disagree.”

“I swear I’ll fucking murder you, Timbit.”

“Now that you finally have something better to do with your time again?” Tim raised an eyebrow in quiet amusement. “I strongly doubt it.”

Tim grinned at him as he made way for Alfred and his tray of tortu—surgical instruments. Alfie thankfully ignored the jabs in his usual grace and set straight to work, and Jason forced himself to keep his eyes trained on his leg and not flinch as the saw started cutting through the plaster. The resulting two halves split with a loud pop as he ran the scissors from Jason’s foot to his calf. This time, it was Barbara who handed him the bowl with the warm water and Jason took it gladly.

The skin of his lower leg was even paler than the rest of him and itched like a sack of fleas, but that wasn’t the biggest issue. Jason scowled as he rubbed the last traces of plaster off his calves. There was way too little muscle there. Eight weeks had set him back tremendously. He made a mental note to double whatever workout Barbara and Alfred had certainly laid out for him and curled his toes carefully. Just like his fingers before, the motion felt strange and slightly disjointed, but at least he _could_ feel it. Jason took comfort in that. He slipped back into a sock and sneaker and relished the thought that he would actually get to use proper shoes again for a change.

“So... where are my crutches?”

“Right here.”

Dick handed them to him with a wide grin and Jason wanted to murder the bastard. Of course they were fucking cobalt blue. Of course they were shiny. Of course everyone had signed them. He growled through his teeth as his hands curled around the grips.

“I’m gonna fucking murder you, Goldie.”

“I love you too, Little Wing.”

The first step was the hardest. Jason knew that much from painful experience. He grimaced as he steadied the crutches and set his freshly freed foot onto the ground. For a moment, the synapses in his brain exploded in hot shock, utterly confused by this sudden mess of sensory input from a limb that hadn’t seen any use in six weeks, and he felt his knees buckle in response. Dick lunged forward instantly, but retreated when Jason all but snapped at him, knuckles turning white around the crutches.

“I can do it by my goddamn self, Dickie. Piss off.”

Of course, now he had to prove that he actually could. Part of him wanted to roll his eyes at the black humor of it all, but there wasn’t any time for that. He re-adjusted his grip slightly, then straightened up once more.

The second step was easier and by the time he had reached the elevator doors, his breathing had finally returned to normal ranges. Not for the first time did he wonder where his life had gone wrong, to have recovering from a crutch-necessitating injury feel less strange than riding a bicycle after a long break. If he was being honest, the fact that he had not actually learned how to ride a bicycle until after his arrival at the manor probably had something to do with it.

“Don’t even think about going to the gym straight away,” Barbara warned him, approaching the lift. “I’ll know if you do.”

“Of course you would.” Jason finally gave in to the impulse to roll his eyes as he selected the second floor from the elevator menu. “Don’t worry. Not where I’m headed.”

He had contemplated going to the first floor and taking the stairs, as he had slowly shambled towards the elevator, but had ultimately decided against it. There were too many freshly healed ribs in his torso to risk face-planting into polished oak.

The lift arrived with a soft ping and Jason frowned at the change in texture as he stepped out onto the carpet. It felt like walking on marshmallows. He fumbled with the keys to his room for a second – not too mention the fucking heavy door – and slipped in quickly.

The water of the shower was instantly hot and somehow Jason would never get over that. He weaseled out of his clothes as fast as he could and eyed the patch of air permeable gauze over his left flank with renewed dread. Fourteen days left. Underneath the strip of synthetic fibers, his skin crawled with pinches and itches. Of course, that and his right ankle – which was not feeling much better, now that he thought about it – were the only parts of his body he was not allowed to soak and scrub clean yet.

 _It could be worse_ , Jason thought to himself as he set the crutches against the wall right next to the bathtub, slid over the rim and slowly balanced himself on his left leg while reaching for the shower head. He lifted the knob that switched between the tab and the shower and closed his eyes in bliss as the water started raining down on his face and soaking through his hair.

Even thirteen years later, it was downright ridiculous how much he sometimes missed a hot shower.

***

Tim had been right. Jason didn’t like to admit it, but Tim had been right.

He had far better things to do with his time than to figure out how to murder his brothers, even if he had wanted to.

The first item on his list was regaining full use of his left leg again and it was undoubtedly the hardest of all. He barely made it out of the bathtub without crashing that night and the walk – hobble, really – to the bed seemed to drag on for years. Even that little exercise had sent the muscles in his calves screaming. He responded by doubling both his training regimen and his protein intake, both of which required careful scheduling around Dick’s and Tim’s training hours in the gym and Alfred’s time in the kitchen. If the suspicious looks the three of them gave him every once in a while were anything to go by, they knew, or at least suspected him to cheat and bend the rules, but they were either too trigger shy or too tired to confront him about it.

The latter seemed to be increasingly likely as the days went by.

It started with Dick coming home from patrol and ditching his usual routine of checking in on everyone for a straight trip to bed. His workouts got shorter and so did his naps. Instead, Jason found him increasingly often sitting by the fireplace in a painful-looking tangle of limbs with hardcopies of his case files spread out in front of him. The one time Jason had pointed out to him that having stacks of paper right next to a literal place of fire was a terrible idea, Dick had snapped and growled at him like a cornered dog, in colorful words that were mildly concerning in their tone. They hadn’t quite reached the creative f-level yet, but they were getting there. And Dick did not usually swear unless he was getting way too exhausted to care.

Tim was not doing much better either, although in his case, patrol was the lesser problem, even though Ghost had scaled down his own patrols since Quinzel’s transfer, leaving more ground for Robin to cover. He stuck to the common, everyday crime-fighting aspects of his night time job, while leaving the big fish for Ghost, and that gave him some room to breathe, at least, but the fatigue was there nonetheless. He could tell by the ever-increasing strength of caffeine blends found in the kitchen. The look on Tim’s face when he came down into the kitchen, six days in, to find all his coffee stashes empty, was priceless and Jason was quite confident the only reason why that didn’t end in a full out brawl was because Tim had promised not to ‘spar’ again until Jason’s legs were both fully healed.

Pity. He would have appreciated the workout.

“It’s his internship,” Barb explained to him the next day, as they were brooding over more material from Whistler’s patient interviews, her personal notes, the contents of all her hard drives at Blackgate, the contents of her phone that Tim had hacked just the other day, and her financial records.

That had been the second half of his week first week off crutches. Digging up dirt on the sociopathic shrink. It might even have been enjoyable had they actually found something that could be used against her in a court of law, but so far, everything they had was circumstantial at best and inadmissible in court in general. A few strange, but vague mails here and there, a few sentences in her notes that seemed to be mindless filler. Both Jason and Barbara were convinced that there was a coder there, but they hadn’t found it yet. With a frustrated sigh, Jason trashed yet another printed journal page, picked up the marker and started scribbling more notes on what he liked to call his ‘brain map wall’. Barbara called it ‘an indistinguishable mess’, and despite having his back turned to her, Jason knew she was raising an eyebrow long before she started talking to him.

“I still don’t get how you can work with that mess.”

Jason grimaced. “I told you I’ll clean it up, after—“

“That’s not what I meant, Jason.”

“It’s _exactly_ what you fucking meant and don’t you _dare_ lie to me!”

He tossed the pen into the nearest corner and stalked back to his seat in as angry a gait as his crutches aloud. An intimidating display of power he was not, right now. Jason suppressed the sigh that wanted to crawl out of his throat as he sat down and eyed his handiwork. He already knew that his way of working seemed shoddy. He had eyes after all, thank you very fucking much. Not to mention almost two years of Bruce scowling at him for his terrible work ethics.

“I don’t fucking see it.” He scanned the wall once more, but even though the dots connected, there was no pattern there, no revelation that might have helped them. He was starting to understand why _she_ had been Joker’s main mole in Arkham. Woman was slippery as a fucking squid. “We are missing something. There’s gotta be some part of her dirty laundry that is right in front of our fucking faces and we can’t see the forest for the trees.”

“I’ve got...” Barb took a deep breath that escaped in a drawn-out sigh as she brought up her casefile database, “fourteen other cases that could use some attention. If you want to do something else, be my guest and pick one.”

It was a tempting offer, Jason could admit. He glanced at the list and recognized a few of them, mostly the nail polish case he had discussed with Dick, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough. It was never enough, and yet at the same time it was too much.

“Tell me about that internship.”

“Excuse me?”

Barb was already typing away at her keyboard, but Jason had learned long ago not to mistake her multi-tasking for disinterest or disrespect. He could count the number of people he knew who could hold a conversation while being deeply engrossed by their work on one hand and Barbara was definitely on that list. He got up – faster than on his first day, but still too fucking slow – hobbled over to the water boiler on the other side of the control room and poured two fresh cups of tea, one chamomile, one red. Pushing and steering the small trolley with the cups over to Barb without damaging his right foot was a challenge, but eventually he succeeded. He plopped down in the chair next to her once more, grabbed his cup, and put his cast-wrapped foot up on her computer for good measure. As expected, Barb gave him the glare of death. _Good._

“Tim’s internship,” Jason started again. “You know, the thing you said that has him shuffling around like a zombie these days, whenever he’s not high as a kite on caffeine?”

Barb grinned. “It’s for his studies. He needs to do one semester of actual teaching in an actual school. Apparently, being a Drake and a quasi-Wayne is not making finding somewhere that will grade you objectively any easier.” Oracle finished whatever database search she had been typing up, reached for her tea, and nudged his leg gently. “If you want to know the rest, you had better take your foot off my dash.”

With a slight grin, Jason dragged his leg back off the computer. _Mission accomplished._

***

 _Completion does not equal success._ Bruce had drilled that lesson into him a long. This time had been no different. He had hoped that his conversation with Barb – this one perfectly mundane, absolutely not case-related discussion would spark something, give him a sudden realization about something he had missed. Instead, it left him feeling no wiser than before.

All the better then that Barb had apparently had the ‘Eureka!’ moment of the century upon getting up the next day. By the time Jason had dragged himself out of bed, she had been busy building a file. By the time he had consumed enough coffee to be competent enough to handle a barbell without aiming for the next Darwin Award, she had polished it to perfection and sent it to GCPD.

The money Whistler received from Joker had been laundered through the Giraffe Fund, a joint venture of the Wayne Foundation and several hospitals in Gotham, for which Whistler – presumably with the intention to keep her positions at Arkham and Blackgate from ruining her reputation with such an innocent organization – had been helping out as an uncredited mental health advisor. Her name had not been on any of the lists, but like every member of the organization, she had received a button with the foundation’s brown-and-yellow-patched logo for New Years Eve. She had only made the mistake of wearing it to work once and had promptly ditched it in a drawer in her desk at Blackgate, but if anyone could remember seemingly insignificant details from two minutes of video footage several days later, it was Barbara.

By the end of the night, Commissioner Cash had indeed confirmed that two of the patients listed as recent fund recipients had been reported missing and one had only recently received a Y-cut to the chest and a shiny tag for his toe. Now they just had to find a way to force her into a deal and get the names of Blackgate’s other rats out of her before Joker found a way to murder her in GCPD’s holding cells. Jason had bit his tongue and quietly removed himself from the room after that. There was nothing he had to say about that woman’s continued existence that would be in any way beneficial to his relationship with either Barb or the GCPD.

That night, Barb and Tim went to bed falling asleep in an instant, exhausted from a week of racing against the clock. Jason went to bed with a sour feeling in his stomach, waiting for the universe to turn this lucky break around and kick him in the balls once more.

He woke up to the sound of the fire alarm.

At first, he had mistaken it for another dream inside a dream. He had had a lot of those in the beginning, waking up only to realize that he had not really woken up, just traded one horror for the next. It had started during his time in Arkham – and really, at that point there had been little difference between nightmare and reality – but it had continued long after. _They have gotten less frequent_ , Jason mused to himself as he slipped into the shirt, pants and shoe by his bedside, then grabbed his crutches and hobbled out of the room.

The sound came from downstairs, as did the smoke and the angry cursing. Despite the supposed gravity of the situation and the fucking pain in the ass that was descending the stairs on only one good leg, Jason couldn’t help but smirk at the steady stream of curses coming from the den. He was pretty sure Dick had filled up his monthly f-word quota by the time he got there.

The alarm stopped just before he entered the room. In front of the fireplace, a half-burned pile of papers lay on the singed carpet. Dick was still in his stupid PJs, one hand holding the smoke detector, the other two AA batteries. Jason sneered at him from the door to the hall.

“You know, if you were gonna wake up the entire house anyway, you might as well have let it burn down a bit more than just a bunch of papers. At least make it worth it.”

“Screw you, too, Jason.” Dick threw detector onto the nearby couch, wiped the ash off his face with the hem of his shirt and glared at the scorched papers in quiet fury. “I just dozed off for a few seconds and now look at this mess! I was working on those notes!”

“No, you were dozing off,” Jason corrected with a scowl. “And judging from the state of your palms you were sleep-ridden enough to think a blanket and your hands would make for adequate counter measures.”

He hadn’t seen it before, thanks to the device Dick had been holding, but his palms were red and raw, and the sight sent Jason’s own hands tingling in response. By the time he had retrieved the burn kit, stashed next to the fireplace, both Tim and Barbara had arrived to see where the literal fire was. Barb was too busy calming their poor little Siamese fluff ball as she ran circles in her lap. Tim, on the other hand, had the motive, means, and opportunity to survey the terrain and deduce the most likely scenario. He rubbed his palms across in his face in sheer exasperation as he forced Dick down onto a chair and pushed him back down every time he tried to get up and assure them that, no, he did not meet medical attention, yes, he was just fine, no, it had just been a little accident.

“Your little accident,” Jason admonished as he grabbed one of Dick’s hands and pulled sharply, tucking it into a semi-tight hold against the coffee table, “destroyed a perfectly fluffy carpet and half your case notes, woke everyone up, and spooked poor Mitaine out of her fucking wits. Just look at the poor thing.”

Barb played right along, joining them by the table and shoving the hyper active kitten into Dick’s lap. On one hand, between Tim and Barb and the Cat, Dick was now firmly restrained to his chair, which meant Jason didn’t have to sock him in the head with his crutches just to get him to stay in one place. On the other, it meant he wouldn’t get away with it, even if he tried. Jason gave a quick sigh, then dabbed the cotton pad into the provided cooling gel and started dabbing away lightly at the agitated skin. Dick’s hiss was both sweet music and horrible noise to his ears.

“I know. It fucking hurts.” He did know. Quite intimately. His hands and feet were already screaming bloody murder and the J on his face was alight once more. He doubted he would ever forget the sharp, acid feeling of a branding iron searing through his flesh, but he pushed the thought down together with the bile. At least Dick’s burns weren’t that bad. “Probably gonna blister in a few hours,” Jason muttered as he continued working up the bones of Dick’s hand right to the tips of his fingers. “Palms and soles are among the most heat-sensitive parts of the body, so the next few days are gonna be pain, but at least it shouldn’t scar.”

“I don’t care about scars,” Dick said pointedly and Jason didn’t even have to look to know that Dick was looking at his cheek. He reached for the sterile gauze bandage and started wrapping up the hand carefully. “And I don’t know what it is with me and fire these days, but I swear I’m not doing this on purpose.”

“Could have fooled me.” Tim caught the unbandaged hand that swatted in his general direction and held it out for Jason to take. Dick’s face was painted in betrayal. Tim’s was painted in caffeine withdrawal and zero fucks given. “On purpose or not, you’re not gonna patrol like this.”

“What?” Dick stared at him as if he had just been told that there was no more chocolate cereal in the world. Anywhere. “What do you mean ‘you’re not gonna patrol like this’? It’s just a first degree burn!”

“Mild second degree,” Jason corrected as he started working on the other hand. “Won’t blame you, though, if you try to make a break for it. At least _you_ have a chance of outrunning the hens.”

Whatever snappy answer Dick had wanted to follow up with was lost as his jaw dropped. Barbara sighed faintly, clearly trying to hide her own frustration, and there was genuine sympathy on her face, but that only pissed him off more.

“What? I’ve been here for six weeks! It’s about time I got the fuck out. My safe-houses must be crawling in dust right now. Thugs probably think I’m dead. And do you have any idea how much muscle mass I’ve lost over the last one-and-a-half months?”

“Yes, we do,” Tim replied, and the tone was as sour as the look in his eyes. “Every damn gram, because that beautiful elevator by the stairs that you’ve been using all this time includes an electronic scale and we did measure that wheel chair before we put you in it.” The slight tinge of hostility that had been swinging underneath the words vanished in an instant. “Look, Jason, I know you don’t like being cooped up in here for so long, but believe me – you’re not missing much. Work is slow, the weather is awful, and Bruce is being an ass. You and Dick... the two of you deserve a break.”

“Well...” Dick withdrew his hands the moment Jason was done with him and inspected them with a disappointed pout. The bandages were covering most of his skin, almost forming a mitten of gauze. Jason wondered how long they would last before Dick would tear them off in frustration. “I was gonna quietly extract myself from the manor while all three of you were asleep, but I guess it wouldn’t be fair, now, would it?”

“I don’t give a damn about your idea of fairness.” Jason stuffed the remaining supplies back into the kit and returned it to the cabinet beside the fireplace. The millon-watts Grayson grin that greeted him when he turned around again did not bode well. “What?”

“I won’t say no to some quality brotherly bonding time.”

Yeah. He was well and truly fucked.

***

He wanted to murder them all.

He wanted to murder Dick for coming up with this idea. He wanted to murder Barb for supporting it. He wanted to murder Tim for being too tired to bother getting him out of this mess.

He did not want to murder Alfred, although that didn’t mean much. No one ever wanted to murder Alfred. It just didn’t happen. Fixed point in time. Natural law. All that crap.

But, damn, had the last few days been annoying!

Jason grudgingly had to give credit where credit was due: Dick, while still being a loud, obnoxious buffoon, had at the very least learned to keep his distance and to shut up when getting glared at. He wasn’t a total lost cause. Not once had he offered to help Jason with making his way through the manor on crutches. He had restricted his own training to the hands-free exercises Alfred had drawn up for him that evening and had kept his complaining to a personal minimum. He had made him watch every Disney renaissance movie and had sung along for each and every one of them, but at the very least he had only insisted on watching them once, in small doses of two or three a day and if Jason was being honest with himself, it wasn’t the worst entertainment he could have picked by a long shot.

 _And you’ve both made a lot more progress with your cases since you teamed up_ , not-Robin piped in from the back of his mind, and Jason had to admit that there was truth in that statement. In the four days since Dick’s unintentional and ineffective self-mutilation, they had solved six cases and gotten solid leads on another two. The nail polish killers were still at large, but at least they seemed to have slowed down, leaving fresh bodies only once every other day. By Gotham’s standards, that was almost kind.

And yet, Jason hadn’t been able to shake the feeling of restlessness that seemed to permeate every inch of his body. It was as if tiny spiders were crawling underneath his skin and some unseen snare was dragging his feet forward, but he couldn’t move. The dreadful weather outside hadn’t helped, with two feet of fresh snow and howling winds keeping both him and the over-friendly, hyperactive octopus firmly locked inside the manor. Even the mailman hadn’t bothered to make it to the manor anymore.

All in all, he was honestly surprised when the door bell rang on Friday evening, just past six. Alfred had already arrived and he had keys, anyway. Bruce would not be able to set foot on the grounds without Barbara knowing about it, much less be smart or audacious enough to actually try the front door. Still, there was no alarm, so whoever had arrived had been let in by either Barb or Tim. With a deep sigh, Jason ditched his copy of _Pioneering Engineering_ on the coffee table, picked up his crutches, and made his way to the front door.

One look though the peephole told him he was well and truly screwed.

The door bell rang again, this time louder and longer. For a moment, Jason honestly contemplated just walking back to the den, grabbing his phone and ear pieces – too bad all his military grade ear plugs were stashed in his safe-houses – and pretend he had heard nothing. The next moment, Dick was there, a bright smile on his face and a skip to his step that made Jason wish he had tried _stomping_ out the fire.

“Come on, Jay! You not gonna let her in?”

The door opened and their visitor stepped in, followed by a solid gust of fresh snow.

“I’m so sorry about that! I swear, I didn’t mean to drag half the hill into this house.”

Her voice was as clear as he remembered, with that last tiny hint of a Guatemalan accent. Jason cringed. He was definitely gonna murder Tim.

“Miss Garcia!” Alfred arrived just as Dick had finished taking her coat. “Please follow me.”

“You assholes,” Jason muttered under his breath as he watched Alfred lead her into the living room. “You know I fucking hate doctors, right?”

“You know she’s the reason you still have full functionality in your left flank, right?” Dick rolled his eyes in frustration and pushed an inconspicuous, brown folder into his hands. “Why did you think Tim took another CT and X-ray scan of your injuries today? She’s here to make sure you’ll be truly ready to go when that last cast comes off. Nothing more. Nothing less. Be nice to her, okay?”

Jason scoffed, tucked the folder under his arm, and returned to the living room in small, careful steps. _It’s not her fault. It’s not her fault. It’s not her fucking fault and I’m gonna fucking murder Tim and Dick._

It wasn’t her fault. Objectively, he knew that. She was here to do a job. Still, the idea of someone else poking his injuries again did not sit well. Objectively, he also knew that he would have socked Tim in the teeth and left right then and there had he tried to take him to Wayne Plaza. Again.

By the time he got back to the table, Alfred and Miranda García were already sitting at the table, sipping some of Alfred’s delicious tea over pleasantly shallow banter. Right now, even just the thought of tea made him want to throw up.

“Alright, let’s get it over with them. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than come out here on a Friday night.” He tossed the folder onto the desk and maneuvered himself into one of the single chairs by the fireplace. With the damaged rug gone, the place looked just as good as new.

“These are recent?” She flicked through the images carefully, studying them over small sips of tea while Alfred nodded slowly.

“They were taken earlier this morning.”

“They look great!” She traced the lines of where he knew the edge of the bite had been and the muscle tingled painfully in response. It wasn’t real of course. He knew that some of the substances included in that mesh they had stuffed into him were numbing the entire area, but the human brain was nothing if not persistently cruel. “Not a trace of the mesh left. Muscle looks healthy and well-formed.” She pointed at the tiny, grainy, white flakes hovering right around his kidney. “Mild inflammation there, although judging from the last scans, that’s just left-over from the bits of mesh that got pushed between the muscle and the organs. Any complications over the last few days? Pain? Itching?”

“Not really.” _Nothing out of a general, very painful, itching desire to get the fuck out of dodge_ , Jason thought glumly. He knew where this was going.

“Right then.” She set both the tea and picture aside and reached for the disinfectant hidden in her purse. “Let’s get that gauze cover off then and see if the surface healed as expected.”

“You mean if the surface left another ugly, fucking scar?” He wanted to shrink back into the chair. Possibly even through the chair. And the wall. And the fucking forest. He wanted to be anywhere but here. “Nothing to see there. I’ll rip it off myself later. Sorry they dragged you all the way out here. My brothers are idiots.”

“Your brothers are concerned kin, who wish to make sure that your injuries are fully healed before you get back to work,” Alfred answered without missing a beat and if Jason hadn’t know better, he would never have suspected from his tone alone that ‘work’ entailed running across rooftops at night and kicking ten tons of crap out of murderers, rapists, and other assorted psychopaths. “And while I cannot say with any confidence where exactly either of them are right now, I am quite certain you would not even make it to the front door, if you tried to leave.”

That was true, too, and Jason felt the color drain from his face as the realization hit him in the gut like a damn crowbar. He should have left long ago.

“I promise, it won’t take long,” Miranda García offered with an apologetic shrug. “A quick look, short palpation check and we’re done. And for the record, I’ve already seen your scars and they don’t bother me.”

“Of course they don’t,” Jason bit back at her. “They’re not _your_ fucking scars. To you, they are a bunch of ugly lines on someone else’s body. You don’t know a single fucking thing about where they came from, how and why, and you probably don’t give half a rat’s ass. Your fucking treatment worked. Congratulations. Go grab your damn check and get the fuck out!”

“You think I give a fuck about a check?” He had crossed the line. Jason knew fury when he saw it. And this woman right there was about to turn into the Greek namesake herself. “When I was nine, my twin sister Olivia accidentally set fire to our apartment. I lost everything I owned, half the skin on my back, and my little sister. It’s been fifteen long years. Sometimes I still have nightmares about it. Sometimes I still wish it had been me. I am fucking paranoid about fire safety – your living room is missing a smoke detector by the way – that fireplace behind your back is currently tying my stomach in a knot, and I’ve got scars across half my back that limit mobility in my shoulders. Not by much, but they do. And you think I give a damn about a _check_? Take off your _pinche_ shirt before I have one of your brothers knock you out!”

 _No need to involve Tim or Dick,_ Jason realized as he caught the stern look Alfred gave him. He had crossed more than just one line. He was in fucking trouble. Only Alfred could manage to look perfectly calm and sympathetic and yet absolutely uncompromising at once. He was not getting out of this room without the professional all clear.

“Fine.” The word felt like razors in his mouth. With grit teeth, Jason moved over to the couch, lay down, lifted the hem of his sweater, and tried to stay focused on the chandelier on the ceiling. The urge to punch the next person to touch him in the face was strong. The urge to run was even stronger. He pushed both down as he counted his blessings.

 _At least the room is warm. At least it isn’t tiled. At least Alfred is here_.

She was swift and careful, as promised. The gauze came off in a short series of quick, painful rips as the medical tape was removed and the patch itself was lifted. The warm air tickled the edge of his injury, but the middle was numb. He could feel soft pressure against his muscles, like being poked through a thick coat, but the skin was completely insensitive.

“Let me know if it hurts, even just a little.”

It didn’t. The wound was closed. An eternity later – _two minutes and sixteen seconds, actually_ – it was over. Someone was running a warm, wet cloth around the edge of the wound that smelled of antiseptic and he swallowed those memories, too.

“It’s just disinfectant,” she said. “The wounds healed well. Scarred of course, but you’ve got a whole lot of medical glue sticking around the edges.”

“I’ll get it off later.” He would. Under a hot shower. Surrounded by fucking tiles.

“Very well then.”

The sweater was tucked back into place and he was off the couch almost immediately. For once, the crutches were actually a blessing. At least that way, if his hands were shaking, no one would know.

“I know what PTSD feels like,” she mentioned almost as an afterthought, while finishing her tea. “I’ve been there. I’m not even going to pretend to know what you went through, but you are still alive. And as long as you’re still alive, you still have the chance to dig yourself out of that dank, dark hole, and best thing is, judging from how your brother willingly violated federal regulations regarding experimental treatments, you don’t have to do it all by yourself.

She let Alfred take the cup away from her and gave him a quick ‘thank you’ before turning back around to Jason. “Something good can still come from all this. Eventually, when you’re better.”

“Nothing good can come from this.” The realization hit him hard. “I already watched that chance fly by my window months ago. I kicked it hard in the ass to speed it along on its way, too.”

Miranda laughed at that. “That’s what I thought, too, after I woke up in hospital weeks later and they told me that my sister had died and I would carry those scars forever. I flat-out told my mom that I’d wished I hadn’t woken up.” Jason bristled at the haunted look that ghosted across her face. He had seen that before. In the mirror. Only in her case, it barely lasted for two seconds. “And yet here I am. Fifteen years later. And if it hadn’t been for that fire, I’d never have decided to study medicine. I wouldn’t have ended up at Wayne Enterprises. I wouldn’t have come up with CREEM. And you’d still have a hole in your flank. Goodbye, Jason Todd. And good luck.”

He watched as Alfred appeared in the doorway and led her back to the main door. Courtesies were exchanged, and a minute later she was gone. He wasn’t sure if this was a good ‘bye’ after all, but he was going to take all the luck he could get. His eyes fell on the fresh snow that had blown in through the door.

He’d need it.

***

It had been another quiet night in Gotham. Jason sighed deeply as he withdrew the remote hacking device he had pocketed from his hoodie and hacked into the manor’s security feed. He hated having to do this, but it was the only way.

Barb was already in bed, and so was Dick. Alfred’s Aston Martin had left the driveway and passed the motion sensors just ten minutes ago. Tim was doing one last round through the manor, as he usually did before going to bed. He stopped briefly in front of Jason’s door, but then apparently decided to skip the ‘good night’ after all and returned to the master bedroom. Jason waited until the doors had closed, set his phone to vibrate, and put the timer at fifteen minutes.

The note was first. Two months ago, he would have left without a trace. Now, the thought left him reeling. Dick would be worried sick. Barb would be disappointed. Tim would be frustrated on top of all the stress that was already ruling his life. Alfred... Jason didn’t even want to think about Alfred’s reaction.

Normally, notes were easy. Jason loved writing, preferred it to speaking in any social contact, really, but tonight, the words got stuck somewhere between his brain and his hand. Part of him was very aware that he should not be doing this, that he was repaying kindness by being a massive dick.

The rest of him knew that the alternative was much, much worse. Tearful goodbyes in person had never been his strong suit, and at least one of his siblings was sure to try and rope him into staying even longer.

_No, thanks, but no. Really. Fucking. No._

He arranged the note and the hacking device neatly on top of the book on his nightstand when he was done. The bed was next. He stripped off the sheets and put them in the hamper, then shook out the comforter and folded it to fit in the closet without trouble. If Alfred would choose to put it there. He cleaned the desk and the nightstand, the window sill and the bookshelf, the lamp and the door knobs. Then he made for the bathroom.

The saw and spreaders had been harder to smuggle out than the RHD, if only because they were bigger and bulkier, but he had managed, during Dick’s brief shower after training that afternoon. His breathing as he brought down the saw bordered on meditation, but his hands still shook slightly as he passed the ankle. The spreader was easier, but no less terrifying. In his head, the soft pop of plaster was the sickening crunch of bones, but that’s all it was. In his head. With a relieved sigh, Jason tossed the broken cast into the trash and cleaned his leg.

If standing on one leg again had felt weird, standing on two was like walking on the freaking moon. He walked slowly up and down the entire length of his room six times before feeling finally returned to all the muscles. Jason scowled.

He was weak. He was tired. He was ill-equipped. It was downright pathetic that this was the best plan he had.

The closet was last. He put on a shirt, two of his thick sweaters and his thickest hoodie – red, because Barb was fucking nice like that – as well as all three pairs of pants he currently had and three pairs of socks. It made the sneakers a very tight fit, but blisters were better than frost bite. He knew.

The change was hidden in another pair of socks, tucked into the very back of the shelf. He had gathered it piece by piece over the last two weeks. A quarter here. A nickel there. It came up to exactly six dollars and twenty-five cents. Enough for precisely one ticket from Crest Hill to the city. He slipped the coins into the inside pocket of his hoodie and took a deep breath.

The manor was dark and empty before him. When he had first come here, as a boy of barely fourteen years, it had seemed downright spooky sometimes. Darkness he was used to. But the silence... the manor could be quiet as a grave and right now, that was exactly how it felt. He was being buried alive here, smothered in over-protectiveness and the need to ‘fix’ him. He had to get out.

His hand had barely touched the handle of the front door when a quiet cough ghosted across the hall.

“Is that any way to leave your home and family, Master Todd?”

“Alfie...” Jason swallowed hard. _Of all the fucking people..._ “I thought you had left already.”

“Ah, yes, the wonder of modern technology that is a remote guidance system...” Alfred’s lips curved into slight, sad smile. “My dear boy, you don’t honestly think I’d let you slither out into the night without saying goodbye, at least?”

“You knew?” Jason forced his jaw not to drop. He had been careful. He had been really fucking careful. Hell, he had run away successfully so many times when he had been a kid... _What the hell?_

“We all knew,” the butler admitted as he zipped Jason’s hood up all the way and straightened out his sleeves. “Why do you think Master Grayson ‘forgot’ his spare change all other the manor? Why do you think I didn’t bother to clean it up? Why do you think Miss Gordon-Drake stacked your closet with proper, warm winter clothing, even though the temperature in here is very pleasant? Why do you think Master Drake arranged for Miss Gracía to come here three days early, rather than wait until the last day?” Alfred sounded both amused and heartbroken at the same time. It did nothing to quell the guilt coiling in Jason’s stomach. “We all knew you’d leave earlier than intended. We just did not know when exactly.”

“Alfie...” He wanted to turn around and just leave, but his feet refused to comply. Instead, his arms sneaked around Alfred’s back and his head sank against a straight shoulder. There was a hand brushing through his hair and another stroking his back. “I’m sorry, Alfie.” He really was. Slowly, the corners of his eyes were starting to grow wet. “You know, this is exactly what I wanted to avoid? Freaking tearful goodbyes?”

“A tearful goodbye is still better than no goodbye,” Alfred reasoned, driving that guilt nail in just a little deeper. “Do you have everything you need, when you get home?”

Jason had to think for a minute. It had been two months since he had set foot in any of his safe-houses. Still, barring some incidental catastrophe, there should be enough food, drink, and money to last him a few days. He nodded silently.

“That’s a relief! And how exactly do you plan to get back home?”

“Bus,” Jason admitted. “It’s a thirty minute walk from here to the station in the Crest Hill subs. I’ve got enough money. I’ll give it back to Dick later.”

“Good.”

That was all. Jason would have been lying to say he wasn’t mildly disappointed, but then again, what had he expected, really? He was skipping out on the people who had looked after him for two long months, at ass o’ clock in the morning. He didn’t deserve better.

“Goodbye, Alfred.”

He had barely turned around when Alfred’s hand grabbed his shoulder, soft as a feather, yet hard as steel.

“Good Lord, dear boy, are you really planning to go out in that weather, dressed like this?”

Alfred strode over to the coat rack quickly and returned a moment later with one jacket flung over his arm, the other held wide open. Jason shrugged into it slowly and the warmth engulfing him was almost surreal. The inside was merino wool, soft and warm and unbelievably light; the outside was genuine leather, polished to perfection, if still stiff since it was not worn in. The second jacket, in the same chocolate brown color followed quickly.

“We haven’t marked them yet,” Alfred explained as he zipped both jackets closed. “But I did take the liberty of sewing some additional pockets and latches into the inside. For your gear.”

“Thank you, Alfred.”

What else was there to say? He wanted to say so much more, but the words wouldn’t come. Alfred seemed to understand though. With a quick smile, he was pulled into another hug.

“Take care of yourself, Master Todd. And please let us know once you have arrived safely.”

“I promise.” That he could do. He had enough burner phones in any of his hide-outs. “I left a note on my bedside table.”

“Thank you, Master Todd. That was very considerate of you.”

“Well, I figured it would be a step up from just up and disappearing like I used to.”

“Indeed it is.”

Alfred grinned, a very rare gesture, as far as Jason could remember and it never failed to draw a little smile from him in return as well. It was good to see that some things hadn’t changed.

“Goodbye, Alfred. I’ll ring you when I get home.”

Jason opened the door and plunged into the darkness outside the house. On the East horizon, the sky was slowly starting to turn a lighter shade of blue, and the idea that there was actual sunlight behind that cover of clouds made him feel just a little warmer at least. The snowfall had toned down greatly and he was thankful for that, too.

With one last sigh, Jason set out for the thirty minute hike down the winding road of Crest Hill’s Mountain Drive.


	30. From Scratch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason has finally left the manor, but that doesn't mean that everything is back to normal, and the first few steps are always the hardest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never let it be sad that getting stuck inside the house while a hurricane is raging outside is a bad thing. It actually allowed me to finish this before Halloween.  
> Google search tag of the day (chapter): muscle atrophy and recovery
> 
> For status updates, writing trivia, fandom/fanfiction/writing related questions and occasional random ramblings, please visit my tumblr: http://lananiscorner.tumblr.com/

“Fuck winter!” Jason was sure he had already said that not too long ago, but it was worth repeating. _Fuck winter up its cold, hard ass. Fuck snow. Fuck ice, the fucking bitch._

Jason continued cursing under his breath as he dug his way through the last six feet of snow to the bus station.

It had started innocently enough. Upon his departure from the manor, the snowfall had not been so bad. A few crumbs here and there really, single, tiny flakes drifting lazily to the ground, melting on his jacket and his face long before they became annoying. Granted, going out in sneakers hadn’t been the brightest idea, and a spoon or two of snow had ended up in his shoes long before he got halfway down Mountain Drive, but that he could ignore. He had had much, much worse before. Even his legs had complied. No pain in the bones, no pain in the muscles, pathetic as they were right now. He had kept a steady, moderate pace. Moderate by normal human standards at least. To him, it had felt as if he was trying to play a snail, but he had decided not to push it. He was sure either Tim or Dick were tailing him, or at the very least would re-trace his steps later to see if he had ended up collapsed in a ditch. He had shuddered at the thought of being taken back to the house and having to spend another fuck-knew-how-many weeks cooped up in there, and had decided to tread slowly, but steadily. Things had been going well.

At least until halfway down the road.

He had felt it in the air pressure first, subtle changes that caused his upper back and shoulders to sting like hot iron nails and made his ankle sear with every step. Only a minute later, the wind had picked up, and Jason had only been able to quietly thank Alfred for giving him the jackets as gust after gust of cold winter air had hit him from different angles. His legs felt the worst, being relatively unprotected despite the layers of clothing, and as the cold had started to creep through his skin and flesh and down to his bones, the metal in his right ankle had finally become noticeable. His left leg felt cold. His right leg felt like liquid nitrogen. He was half-tempted to hack it off.

The snowfall had gotten stronger, too. By the time he could faintly see the bus stop sign and the twelve-seater van that qualified as a ‘bus’ for this part of town, the weather had turned bad enough to obscure his view entirely. Six inches of snow had suddenly grown to two feet and pushing through them was like crawling through mud. He shoveled the soft, white powder out of his way by the pint as he forced his feet to go faster. If the van was there already, it would be leaving soon. It only stopped for ten minutes and it was the only bus in a full hour.

“I am not...” Jason bit his lips as the pain spiked through his ankle and up his calf. “... spending an entire...” His hand reached for the door handle quickly. “... hour out here.”

Perhaps there really was a higher power. The door opened with a rusty rattle and the driver’s hands all but dragged him inside. Jason didn’t protest. It was warm inside the van. Warm and reasonably dry. He had pretty low standards right about now.

“Good Lord, son, what the devil are you doing out in this weather in nothing but a leather jacket?”

“Getting the fuck away from a clutch of over-protective family hens,” Jason muttered through his chattering teeth as he dug the coins out of his right pocket. “One ticket to Grand Avenue, please.”

Thankfully, the driver merely shook his head, took the cash, and handed him the ticket in return. Jason tugged it into one of the pockets on the inside of his jacket, then soldiered on to the very back of the van. He had enough presence of mind to notice that he was the only passenger so far, before he sank onto the bench and every muscle in his right calf exploded into accusing fire.

 _Shouldn’t have walked so fast,_ not-Robin chided in the back of his mind, and Jason wanted to strangle the motherfucker. He knew it was bad. He knew his muscles had atrophied a lot – although thankfully not as much as they might have, thanks to the protein- and carbohydrate-rich diet Alfred had provided him with, the sleep Dick and Tim had forced him to take, and the demanding, yet carefully structured exercise regimen Barb had drawn up for him.

Okay. Maybe having over-protective hens for family hadn’t been _that_ bad.

 _Family._ The word still tasted strange on his tongue. He hadn’t used it for a long time, had barely even been sure what it was at times. He wondered briefly if escaping like this at the ass-crack of dawn made him a bad brother, but the thought couldn’t stick. As the engine rumbled and came to life under his seat, and the van slowly started moving down the snow-covered streets of the super-rich suburbs, new worries sprang to his mind.

For starters, he’d have to choose a safe-house. Chances were at least one of them was tailing him. Chances were good that said someone might be Bruce. He could not stay near Grand Avenue, so the one in Kingston was out. Bleake, too, since he had had Lucius send his material orders there last year. The Diamond had been compromised. At the very least, it was the one that everyone knew about and that put it at the very bottom. Burnley and Founders had gone up in smoke. His fault for using his real name on those.

That left the mainland and Jason shuddered at the thought of having to take the Subway there. Money was not a problem. He had learned how to pick pockets when he was four. It would be a piece of cake. Staying there though, underground, until he got to the mainland? He didn’t like crowded places. He didn’t like holes in the ground. Especially when they were tiled and dirty.

The van stopped at the hop-on point in Bristol, but no-one entered. Jason wasn’t surprised. As a general rule, people in Bristol were not as obscenely wealthy as the one percent on Crest Hill, but still affluent enough to afford a car for every driving-license-aged occupant of the house, and safely coddled in solid nine-to-five jobs. In neighborhoods like these, no-one would be caught dead taking a bus this early. Not even on a Friday morning.

Next up was Robinson Park, and for a moment, Jason even entertained the idea of getting out right then and there, walking to the other side of the park, and staying in his western-most safe-house. The trees would make for good cover. Unfortunately, they also made for abysmal snow-removal. He cast one look the pile of white blocking the nearest entrance and shook his head. Not in his current condition.

At the McCallum Academy stop, the first signs of life finally crossed his sightlines. Early arrivals. Teachers coming in to prepare for their classes. Janitors, construction workers – because when was there ever not any construction going on inside the campus? – and security personnel. Jason watched out of the corner of his eye as the nightshift security guards filed into the van, taking up the first two rows of seats, guns firmly tucked in their holsters and batons by their sides. _Standard 9mm Berrettas. Kevlar vests_. _Not an issue._ With a small sigh, Jason turned his attention back to the world outside the van.

The sun was rising slowly now and despite the soft cloud cover, the world finally shifted from black to gray. Halfway across Robinson Bridge, traffic started to get heavier and Jason frowned as the van slowed down until it all but crawled along the asphalt. He should have gotten off before the bridge and taken the sidewalk. It would have been faster.

 _It would have been colder,_ not-Robin chided. _Not to mention less cover._

In the end, merely getting across the bridge took almost as long as getting from Crest Hill all the way to its beginning. By the time the van rolled into the assigned parking lot near Wayne Tower, the streets were bustling with thousands of people on their way to work or school, a myriad of ants in a snow storm. Jason took a deep breath and plunged himself into the cold morning air.

It was still snowing. It was still cold. Neither helped when navigating through the crowds as he made his way to his cache in the Botanical Gardens. Only once he got close to the overgrown structure did the masses finally part. Atop the asphalt and the snow, Ivy’s pre-historic, fear-toxin-guzzling tree loomed majestic as ever, in full bloom despite the lack of sunlight and the freezing temperature, like a defiant middle finger from Mother Nature herself. The leaves and vines rustled above him as he slipped past the hedges growing at the foot of the structure and opened the main gate just wide enough to slip in, and he growled at the thorny tendrils sneaking towards him through the finely grated walls.

“Don’t get your twigs in a twist, Pammy, I’m just here for my gear. I’ll be out of your trichomes in a minute.”

The tree groaned as he ascended deeper into the structure, but at least it didn’t move to kill him like the first time he had come back here. Jason couldn’t blame her. Humanity had not been kind to her. Gotham City Council had had a long discussion about whether to cut the trees down or not. It had also been hilarious, because Jason remembered very well how his own militia had gone at them with axes, flamethrowers, and even tanks, and none of it had made much of a scratch. Short of flying in Superman with his laser beam eyes, he doubted there was any way to cut those trees down.

That, of course, was part of the reason why she had tried to kill him. He had done his damn best to kill her, and while her trees had eventually neutralized the toxin, he knew it hadn’t been pleasant. There had been days when Jason had seriously doubted his own sanity for setting up an emergency cache within the convoluted appendages of Ivy’s children, but it had paid off. They had not murdered him (yet), although it had taken him weeks and the cracked skulls of several guys trying to cut down her plants to convince her, and they had done a damn good job at keeping everyone else out. One-hundred percent organic security. Batman and Oracle were welcome to try and hack that.

The cache was still untouched, perfectly dry, and perfectly complete. He reached for the helmet, activated the electronics scanner, and stripped out of his clothes layer for layer. He was not in the least surprised when it was the jackets that came back as red hot, bugged to hell and gone. Alfred had never let any of his charges out of the house without sneaking a tracker or two into their clothes.

This time, there had been two in each. One sewn into the lapels, one sewn into the double layering of one of the inside pockets. The encryption protocol Alfred had used was easy enough, which could only mean that he had not been worried about having them found. As a matter of fact, Jason suspected that Alfred had firmly expected it. He disabled them both quickly, before shrugging back into his clothes, layer by layer, and adding a grapnel and two flashbangs to his pockets. He boxed up the rest and grinned as Ivy’s vines slid over the grating once more.

“Thanks, Pam.”

The way out was always easier of course. Ivy never liked human company and the sooner he left, the better. If anyone had seen him leave the giant, biological death trap that were the Gardens, then nobody cared. He crossed the street to the tunnels in a quick sprint, picked a handbag thief’s pocket on his way across the street, and descended into the tunnels.

***

 _This was a bad idea_. Jason cursed as he pushed past the masses to the ticket machine. It was dark, crammed, and thoroughly tiled. He wished he could have said he didn’t know how he had managed to deal with it back then, but that would have been a lie. He knew. And it was not the kind of help he ever wanted to accept again.

 _Ah, but you were so good as him, Todders_ , Joker cooed in the back of his mind. _A perfect soldier. Strong! Fearless! Now look at you..._

He was looking at himself. In the reflection of the graffitied subway map, Jason could see the J on his pale cheek, the unruly, black mop with the white streak, wet from melted snow, and the defensiveness that was written all over his body for anyone who knew how to look.

_You traded the Knight for pathetic insecurity..._

_I traded the Knight for peace of mind,_ Jason lobbed back at the demons of his mind. _Now shut the fuck up and let me think._

He still needed to decide where to go. The islands were out. So was the south. Too close to Bracken. Too close to Bruce. He resigned himself to scanning the map from the top to the bottom for his most viable option, but he barely made it past the first line in the grid.

_Blüdhaven._

At the top of the map, far in the north of Gotham, the latest extension of Gotham’s blue line stretched all the way to the Spine. Blüdhaven was less familiar to him, but that also made it less likely, less obvious. He would run the risk of running into Dick, but at least he’d _only_ run the risk of running into Dick. No Bruce. That was a good start.

***

The ride took a total of thirty-eight minutes and twenty-three seconds, over a total of six stops. He counted the number of people entering and leaving at each of them, plus special occurrences whenever they happened. Two crying babies. Four pick-pockets. One guy carrying a concealed Magnum. There had been a penguin-head tattoo on his forearm, just where the sleeve ended. One of Oswald’s guys. Two hawkers, one of which sold electronic knockoffs. Eighteen police officers. A little girl with brown pig tails and equally brown bruises covered underneath lots of foundation. Not a shitty job. Someone had practice, and Jason had half a mind to find them and knock them senseless.

The counting game was one he had played often, back when he had still been Robin, and it had usually been with either Alfred or Dick. It had taken him a short while to truly get it, and even then he had often noticed other things than what they wanted him to notice. Useful things, but not what they had meant. That had taken significantly longer. As he got out of the train, Jason wondered how many things he had missed on this ride that Dick would have wanted him to notice.

Blüdhaven was no more welcoming than Gotham, and Jason cringed as he left the subway station. The fresh air felt clean, but cold, in his lungs and his fingers itched for the feeling of a cigarette. He exited Grand Plaza at the earliest opportunity and made his way down the checkered pattern of Blüdhaven’s streets to the south harbor. He had a distinct feeling that Ivy had probably hated this city even more than Gotham. At least Gotham had grown naturally. Blüdhaven had been carved out with a ruler and pencil. No wonder she had trashed the police station first chance she had gotten.

Rutford Hill towered over the harbor as it had always done, yet another abandoned “low-cost housing” project, which had ended up a dismal failure, like so many before, as rents grew and wages fell. Jason surveyed his surroundings quickly before reaching for the mailbox to apartment 8.14. The key was just where he had left it, stuck to the inside of the metal strip just above the flap. He grimaced at the flood of ads that had arrived in the name of Jennis Vinter and dumped them straight into the nearby trash.

The foyer was almost tropically warm, compared to the outside, and Jason savored the rush of heat as blood flowed back into his limbs while the elevator ascended to the eighth floor. The camera above the stairs was still broken (or maybe ‘again’ – it had been a while after all), and the hall was empty, but behind the doors, life was stirring. People were getting ready to head for school and university and work. The sooner he got out of the corridor, the quicker. He found apartment 14 quickly, unlocked the door, slipped in quiet as a shadow, and immediately locked it again. Only once his back was firmly pressed against the door and his eyes scanned the space for any signs of foul play, did he allow himself to let go of the breath he hadn’t known he had been holding.

“I’m home.”

It sounded completely surreal. _Eight weeks. Eight fucking weeks in the manor!_ He might as well have been on the other side of the world.

He started with a quick terrain check, as always. The bathroom was sparse and spotless as he had left it, plus some accumulated dust, with the mirror still covered and the medicine cabinet fully stocked. The kitchen was cold and immaculate. Something in the fridge had probably spoiled in his absence, but that he could live with. A quick look into the cabinets told him that he would have enough food to last for a week. He put on a fresh cup of red tea and left for the bedroom. Everything was still in its place, neat and tidy, as if he had never left. The hidden compartment in his closet was untouched, the gear behind it unseen by anyone but him. His clothes either hung neatly from racks or rested cleanly folded on the shelves. The bed was just waiting for him to go to sleep.

He went for the living room instead. It was tiny, really, but more than enough for one person. He retrieved the lighter, tobacco, and paper from their little hiding spots in the bottom shelf of the nearby dresser and started rolling a new batch on the coffee table. The fingers of his right hand were no longer clumsy, like they had been four weeks ago, but the motions still felt wrong, just slightly off. He lit one with practiced ease and coughed out the first drag with a rasp that bespoke a definite _lack_ of practice. It tasted good. It also tasted horrible. It felt like liquid silver. It also felt like barbwire and glass. Jason ditched the remaining cigarettes back into the dresser, then went for the kitchen once more.

The tea was ready less than a minute later and he poured it quickly. It wasn’t Alfred’s blend, just a cheap copy. He had never managed to identify all the ingredients after all.

 _Maybe the secret ingredient is love?_ Dick had suggested one day while they had shared a quick after-training tea in the manor’s kitchen. Back then, Jason had spit his tea out on the spot. He could still feel the little bit of bile that had threatened to climb up his throat even now, years later.

 _Maybe I should glue your mouth shut with that stuff Bruce used for glue grenades, couple of years back_ , Jason had lobbed back at him.

He supposed any normal person would have smiled at the memory. All it did for him was to remind him that he had promised to contact them as soon as he got home.

The phone was exactly where he had left it, in the top drawer of his bedside table. He took it back to the living room, set the cigarette down in the ash tray on the coffee table, shrugged out of his triple socks, and tried not to look at the scars on his feet as he dialed Oracle’s number. It was just a quick call and it had to be quick. Anything longer than thirty seconds and he might as well reactivate the trackers in his jackets.

She answered on the second ring, and Jason quickly huffed out the smoke and set down the cigarette before reacting to her tentative ‘hello?’ Somehow, Barb always knew just what he was doing even through a phone line. It was unsettling bordering on creepy.

“Jason here.” He settled for a sip from the cup of tea instead. “Just wanted to let you know I’ve arrived safe and sound.”

“Do I have to change your phone number again?” There was a clear note of relief under all the exasperation, but Jason chose to ignore it. He didn’t have much time, after all.

“No. This is a burner phone. My permanent phone is in my apartment.” Half a lie. He had no apartment, only safe-houses he stayed in more frequently than others. “I’m in a safe-house.” Not a lie. _Good job, chief_.

“Jason—“

“Safe. House. Barb.” He took another sip. “I’m okay. Don’t worry. I’ll hang up now.”

“Okay, but at least once a week—“

 _\--give us a life sign._ Jason scowled as he swiped the ‘end call’ button. He didn’t need to hear the rest. He already knew how this discussion would go. They had danced this dance before. He popped open the cover and took out the battery, just to be absolutely sure, then finished his tea. It wasn’t cold yet, he knew, but it sure as hell tasted like it. The cigarette, despite the flavoring he always included in his blends, tasted stale. Just ash. The thermostat on the wall read twenty-three degrees Celsius, seventy-three Fahrenheit, but it felt like so much less.

“Fuck this shit.”

He stubbed the cigarette out on the ash tray and deposited the cup of tea in the sink, then went for the shower. The water felt cold, even though he knew it was warm, and the bed wasn’t much better. He knew it was only a matter of time until his body warmed up the cocoon formed by the sheets, but it didn’t help. He counted the seconds, but even ten minutes later, it still felt cool under the covers. As he stared at the ceiling with his brows furrowed in annoyance, the uncomfortable truth finally settled in.

He was safe. He was in a house. But he wasn’t home. Jason Todd had safe-houses. He did not have a home.

***

He woke up to the feeling of his head being split open by a crowbar. Part of that was his memory, his latest nightmare, although unless he was completely mistaken, Joker had never actually managed to crack his skull completely. The other part was a splitting headache. Jason cursed as he rolled out of bed.

It was shortly past noon, but it already felt like evening. The skies were dark and heavy snow was drifting down to the ground. Jason retrieved the phone from the living room, slipped the battery back in, and checked the weather report. Massive snowfall. Zero winds. He could work with that. He ditched the sneakers for proper boots, exchanged the triple sweaters and pants for thermal gear and a bullet-proof vest, and added gloves, a scarf, and three knives to the outfit – one to find easily, one to find after searching, one to remain undetected – and set out for a long walk.

He took the subway back to Gotham. Normally, this would be the time when he would start training, but if the lingering stiffness in his ankle was anything to go by, it was not a good idea. For now, he had to focus on getting the lay of the land again. Of course he had been following Robin’s casefiles, so he was up to date on any major problems hitting the islands, but that still left tons of street crime unchecked. He needed to know how bad it had gotten. More importantly, he needed to know just how much Red Hood’s reputation had suffered, how much his impact on the criminal underbelly of Gotham had lessened since his disappearance.

The answer was not good.

It was the pleading sound of someone screaming ‘no’ from the darkness of an alley near Chinatown’s Bank of Gotham branch that drew him in. It would have been easier to spot from the rooftops, with his hood on, but that didn’t mean he absolutely needed it. Jason knew Gotham’s sound, its pulse, the roaring of engines mixed with endless chatter and the constant prattling of rain against the surface, or – in the colder months – the howling of the freezing wind. He also knew what it sounded like when a fresh cry disrupted the usual noise. With a quick sigh, Jason rolled his shoulders, drew the scarf up to cover all but his eyes, and slipped into the alley.

The one doing the screaming was a man in a suit, probably an employee of the bank if that shape sticking out against the breast pocket of his shirt was what Jason thought it was. He had dropped his black leather briefcase. Samsonite. Not outrageously expensive. Not cheap either. Guy had enough money to be worth robbing, but not enough to fear a big man hunt if he survived. It was a big ‘if’.

The two guys doing the mugging looked to be half the man’s age. Early, maybe mid-twenties. No gang signs. Crummy old Lugers that looked like they had seen better days. One of them was missing its sights. Jason frowned. It always pissed him off when people didn’t take proper care of their guns. Especially when they were crowding in on his usual patrol routes.

“Quit whining, smarty-pants! Who do you think’s gonna come for ya? Robin? Batman?”

 _Not even a mention._ He went for the one with the intact gun first, bringing one foot down hard against the side of his knee and grabbing the gun straight from his flailing hands as he went down howling in pain and clutching the dislocated joint. By the time the other one had turned – _slow, way too fucking slow_ – Jason had already lined up his shot. The bullet hit straight in the shoulder and the second thug dropped his gun. Jason moved quickly, kicking it out of reach and hitting him at just the right angle to knock him straight out. There was less strength to the punch now, but precision could make up for that. Jason shook out his hand and turned around once more.

The crook with the fucked up knee had a knife now, and Jason scowled at his continued resistance.

“Really, dude? I just kicked your ass and disarmed you in two seconds. You really wanna go for round two?”

Apparently the answer was ‘yes’. It was pathetic, really. More of a hobble than a tackle. A blind drunk could have avoided that one and Jason did it with ease. He grabbed his stretched out arm quickly, used his momentum to bring him down to the ground in one swift, circular motion, and punched his face into the asphalt. It was over in seconds.

“Please don’t mug me!”

The suit was still leaning against the nearby wall with its cheap gang tag graffiti. There were other stains on there, too, and Jason didn’t even want to know whether they were blood or shit. Either way, he wouldn’t have been surprised if some of them belonged to the stammering fool in front of him.

“Do I look like a mugger to you?”

“Yes.”

The man paled. Jason scowled. At least he had enough brains left to realize that saying that had been a very, very bad idea. The frightened horror was written all over his pasty face.

“Oh god. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just—“

“Get lost! Now!”

He accentuated the words with a low growl and watched as the man ran off into the direction of the nearest street lamp. Jason took a moment to curse him under his breath, then picked up the briefcase and threw it past him. He stumbled over the black case, then quickly regained his balance, grabbed his belongings and dashed off down the street. Jason shook his head. Some of these bastards would forget their heads, if they weren’t attached to their bodies.

“You know, I had completely forgotten how charming you can be sometimes.”

From atop a nearby fire escape, two floors up, Robin grinned down at him. The red of his vest was mottled with white flakes and the hood was drawn up to cover his head, but other than that, he looked just like the last time Jason had seen him in action. No new cuts. No new bruises. That was good.

“You ask a bullshit question, you get a bullshit answer.” He gave a quick look around, just to confirm that there was no one looking, dropped the gun, reached for the grappling hook inside his jacket, and aimed for the roof. Robin was next to him almost instantly. Jason frowned. “How long have you been tailing me?”

“Since Panessa. This is your first night back in town. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“Which is why I walked by Panessa Studios,” Jason lobbed back at him as he kicked some of the snow off the ledge and into the alley. With any luck it had landed on one of the two idiots below. “Did you not catch me winking at the camera?”

He thought it had been obvious. The only way he could have been less subtle was if he had walked right in front of the front entrance carrying a megaphone and a sign that red ‘hey guys, I’m fine’ in bright, bold, neon pink letters.

“Not the only reason you went there, though, is it?”

“Is this an interrogation?”

He retrieved one of the cigarettes from the right pocket of his hoodie and lit it with quickly, despite the weather. Wind and snow could go fuck themselves for all he cared. Of course that hadn’t been the only reason.

The hole had still been there, and, frankly, Jason was not surprised. The council was shit about getting anything fixed in this city, and while Barb’s dad was doing good work, it was a drop in the bucket for Gotham. The hole was still there, huge and crude, with irregular edges and broken pieces of concrete lying at its feet. He had stood there, gazing at the broken wall, at the dark, half frozen waters beneath, and at the hulking ruin of ACE Chemicals in the distance, and his left flank had started to itch like crazy. He could still feel the fangs inside his flesh. He could still feel the cut on the other side. His fingers and legs had screamed bloody murder.

“I’m just trying to look after my little brother.”

Jason wanted to laugh. He also wanted to punch Tim in the face. In the end, he settled for a swift sweep of his leg that took Robin by surprise and sent him down hard. Jason scowled down at him.

“One, I’m not your little brother. I was there before you.”

“You’re still a year younger.”

“Two, if I hadn’t just gone off crutches yesterday, I’d be packing way more pounds than you.”

“But you did. And you don’t.”

“Three, I don’t need looking after. I’m fine! F-I-N-E! Fine. Alright. Dandy. Grand. Swell. Never-better. Not-in-need-of-any-of-your-fucking-bul—“

“Alright!” Tim threw up his hands in defeat. If the eye-roll was anything to go by, even Tim’s patience was not endless. “Alright. I get it. We’re being too pushy. I’m sorry.”

“We?” Jason cocked an eyebrow, then scanned the nearby roofs. He couldn’t see anything, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. “Nightwing or Ghost?”

“Penny-One and Oracle,” Robin corrected as he got up slowly and shook the excess snow off his costume. For a moment, he really did look like a bird cleaning his feathers. “Nightwing’s busy in Blüdhaven. More of these damn acetone shenanigans.”

“Nail polish killer?”

“Nail polish killer,” Tim confirmed. “Ghost is trying to find the new Joker. Whistle hasn’t blown yet, but everyone in GCPD is getting edgy. They know it’s only a matter of time until he finds a way inside to take her out.”

“Which leaves you to patrol all of Gotham for the normal, every-day craziness,” Jason concluded as he stubbed out his cigarette. “How’s that been going?”

Tim cringed. “Well, as you just saw... I can’t be everywhere at once.”

“Which is why you should not be wasting your time tracking _me_ of all people.”

 _And I shouldn’t have to be telling you this_ , Jason thought to himself as the headache he had managed to almost get rid off through his evening stroll came back with a vengeance. As if on cue, the muscles in his legs joined the parade of wear-and-tear agony. It was pathetic, really. He had barely been in town for almost two hours, but enough was enough. He needed to get back.

“Go back to your patrol, Robin. I’m done for tonight.”

He was almost on the other side of the rooftop, ready to climb back down into the shadows and head for the subway, when he heard Robin’s voice over the wind.

“Jason!”

“I know, I know.” He didn’t even bother to turn around. “Take it easy, don’t overestimate yourself, stay out of trouble, yadda, yadda, yadda.”

“Actually,” the hook of the zip-kick connected with the chimney to his right and Jason groaned. A moment later, Tim appeared next to him, although at least he had the decency to no longer look like a shelter worker taking care of an injured puppy. “I just wanted to say thanks for not killing them.”

“Who?”

“Those two guys back in that alley.”

“Oh.” Jason shrugged, he had already forgotten completely about those two idiots. “You’re welcome, I guess.”

He didn’t really know what to say to that. What was there to say? Oh, I’m so happy to have your approval, oh big, old, wise brother? Damn it, I completely forgot that I had a loaded gun in my hand? Shit, fuck, I knew I forgot _something_ ; let me go back and fix it right now?

“Why do you care, anyway?”

But, oh, he had to go for that one! Jason didn’t even try to suppress the little sigh that weaseled out of his throat as his face met his palm. _The fuck. We’re on our way back, remember? Don’t feed the troll._

“Because you’re better than that.” Robin shook his head slightly. “You can be so much better than that, and you know it. People can change. You know that, too.”

“Not all people,” Jason argued. “If I ever run into Joker or Scarecrow again, if I ever have to choose between one of those scumbags or one of their victims, I’m pulling the fucking trigger!”

A wide grin stretched across Tim’s lips as he slowly backed off.

“Proving my point for me, bro. Take care.”

He wanted to snap back at him, but Robin had already plunged off the side of the building, cape stretched out. Jason didn’t even try. He’d be long gone by the time he got close enough to look. He muttered a long string of curses under his breath as he climbed down the fire escape, then headed back to the subway. Two corners out, his gaze fell on a chunk of blown out wall, roughly three-by-two feet in size.

 _Militia shield_ , Jason thought sourly, as he entered the subway station underneath the Panessa Urbarail and slid the weekly ticket he had bought earlier this evening over the annoyingly beeping sensor at the turnstiles. Even now, more than a year later, the city still bore some of the signs of the Arkham Knight’s occupation. Joker would be proud. The Knight would be ecstatic.

The train arrived less than two minutes after he got there and Jason slid into the nearest single chair with a satisfied sigh. His legs cried for joy at the reduced pressure, but he knew that was only temporary. A few minutes of rest and the muscle would start to itch in reaction to the ordeal it had been put through. As the warmth of the train car seeped through his clothes, Jason tucked the scarf back under his jacket. In the poor reflection of the window, half his scars were barely visible. The others blurred as the train rushed past thousands upon thousands of feet of dirt and concrete. He tried to picture the blue helmet back on his face, but it didn’t work, no matter how hard he tried.

Perhaps Robin had been right. Perhaps people could change.


	31. Until They Are Hatched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red Hood is finally returning to full patrol and his first night in town is actually going pretty well. At least until the last minutes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Google search (tag) of the day/chapter: tetrodotoxins
> 
> For status updates, writing trivia, fandom/fanfiction/writing related questions and occasional random ramblings, please visit my tumblr: http://lananiscorner.tumblr.com/

If someone had told Jason that Tim’s slightly preachy advice would be his wittiest conversation for the rest of the week, Jason would have laughed, then punched them. As things stood right now, he would have died for a lecture. Or one of Dick’s stupid puns.

Each day had been the same: get up at noon, have breakfast, catch up on the latest news, complete upper body work-out. He had been apprehensive at first, unsure if his fingers could take the exercise, much less his left flank, but for once, Jason had been pleasantly surprised. The bones in his hand had already mended four weeks ago and the exercises Barb had given him while still in the manor had strengthened the surrounding muscle tissue sufficiently. The newly grown muscle felt strangely stiff, but one scan with the hood told him it was all psychosomatic. The muscle was fine, as good as natural, and Jason took comfort in that.

His legs were an entirely different story.

Bleake had been his first exercise, then Miagani, then Founders, then Burnley, the Diamond and even the fucking Coventry, because even if he hated the damn place enough to _not_ have a safe-house there, it was still part of Gotham. It was still part of his city.

After his morning routine and a quick lunch, he had patrolled each of the islands, although ‘patrol’ was really not quite the right word for it. More like a long, attentive, analyzing walk in civvies, no matter the weather. Even that had taken more out of him than Jason wished to admit. His left leg had taken the exercise well enough, but his right had always ended up complaining a few hours in. The urge to ignore it and power through was strong, but he had made that mistake before, and even though Bruce was no longer around to yell at him for disregarding health and safety instructions, he was smart enough to acknowledge that most rules had been in place for the reason.

As much as Jason hated it, patrol had proved one thing: he’d have to rely more on his hands than usual. More punching. More wrestling. Less shooting. At least in close combat, and sniping was really not the best option in this weather, much less in the winding labyrinths of Gotham’s many alleys and dead-ends, where most of the action took place.

He had stuck to well-lit streets wherever possible, but even so he had seen more than enough signs of trouble. New gang tags on walls. Crime scene tape in places where there had been none before. Relatively recent blood splatters that had not yet washed off. He had taken note of all of them and added them to his database upon return to his safe-houses.

That had been the second part of his evenings, his nights: cleaning up the damn safe-houses. The dust had settled, as expected, and some of the food had spoiled. In Burnley someone had apparently tried to climb through his window and – ignoring the alarm that sounded – had pressed on to walk straight into a dart full of tetrodotoxin. There was an antidote taped underneath the bottom of one of the kitchen drawers of course, in case any of his death-defying relatives had decided to come visiting unannounced, but the burglar had not known that. Judging from the state of his body, it must have been a few days and Jason cursed under his breath as he started prepping the bathtub.

He fucking hated clean-up duty.

***

His first real patrol came a week after he had left. Naturally nothing flew past Oracle’s watchful eyes and he had barely made it all the measly way from his safe-house in Kingston to his patrol starting point at Mercy Bridge when her comms channel lit up like a Christmas tree. Jason grappled onto the nearest gargoyle, took a deep breath, and opened the line.

“Not for nothing, Red, but are you insane?”

“Good morning to you, Oracle.” He scanned the nearby rooftops quickly. No yellow cape or red vest in sight, but that didn’t mean much. “I know what you’re gonna say, but you can save your breath. Yes, I am going to do this. No, you can’t stop me. Yes, I know Robin or Nightwing are probably already on my tail. No, I don’t give a fuck. Yes, I’ll be careful. Yes, I’ll do my best not to get outnumbered. Yes, I’ll try _really_ hard not to kill anyone. You happy?”

“How many times have you practiced that?”

Jason could all but hear her shake her head through the comms line. The answer was ‘way too fucking many’. He had known this conversation was going to happen. He had been dreading it all week, but now there was no way around it.

“I’m not insane, Oracle,” Jason finally relented. “But I’ve been off these streets for almost ten weeks. Half these fumbling idiots don’t even remember who the Red Hood is, and Robin is already stressed out. You know that.”

The silence he got in reply spoke more than any answer Barbara could have given. If he had learned one thing about Tim in the last few months, it was that he was prone to overworking himself. And being obnoxiously mentally healthy for a guy who dressed like a song bird and beat up criminals at night, in spite of it all. At least one of those two things was supposed to stay that way.

“Fine.” Oracle huffed indignantly on the other end of the line. “I will tell Robin to keep his distance, but he will be working parallel to your route. If you need assistance, he can be there within a minute.”

“I won’t.”

Jason shut off the comms line before she could answer. He knew it was very likely to be the best deal he would get.

He started with Miagani, patrolling along the Ranelagh fairy terminal and the tunnels leading to Wayne Tower while avoiding the beehive that was Grand Avenue. Just a week ago, the streets had been half-deserted. Now, with a warm weather front rolling in and the temperatures quickly rising, life had returned to the streets.

His first contact came just outside of the Urbarail station near Wayne Tower, when a terrified whimper crawled through his comms unit. He grappled in quickly, took ten seconds to analyze the situation – two muggers, one gun, one victim – and jumped into the alley.

He landed hard on the hand with the gun and let gravity do its job as the rest of the man’s body followed and his jaw hit the granite on the ground. The second mugger came for him, screaming, knife drawn up for a vicious stab, the other hand extended forward for balance, and Red Hood evaded quickly. He grabbed the extended arm and led it fluently, forming the half-circle Bruce had taught him ages ago in his aikido lessons, and sent him face-first into the nearest wall. The gunner groaned next to him, as he tried to push himself up. Jason grabbed him by the lapels to help him up, then headbutted him hard. A second later, his scans confirmed they were both out like a light.

“You-You’re the Red Hood!” The kid they had been trying to rob sounded somewhere between excited and terrified. Jason rolled his eyes as he adjusted his standard 911 text message for the number of unconscious goons involved and the address, and hit sent.

“Well spotted. GCPD will be here in a minute.” He took the time to kick the shooter’s gun well out of reach and zip-tie the wrists of both thugs, then turned to the boy again. The kid did not seem convinced. “What?”

“Nothing.” _Increased heart rate, accelerated breath_. The kid was nervous at least. “It’s just... well... I always thought... they said you kill all the crooks you come across. Shoot them, you know. With guns.”

Jason was half-tempted to say ‘that’s ridiculous – I always use a bow and arrow’, but bit back the remark just in time. He could have shot them, yes. Part of him still thought he should. At least that way, they would never be able to hurt anyone else again.

 _They would never be able to turn their lives around, either,_ not-Robin chirped in his head, and Jason scowled.

“I’m feeling generous tonight, alright?”

“Woah, makes no difference to me!” The kid threw up his hands quickly. Jason couldn’t blame him. It had come out a lot more offensive than he had planned. “You kicked their asses. I didn’t get mugged or shot. All good to me, you know.”

From the main road, the sound of sirens slowly drifted into the alley. He had police dispatch on one of his channels and listened in quickly, just to confirm that these were really the cars he had been waiting for. When they got close enough for the red and blue light to reflect off the rain gutters on the corner, Jason reached for his grapnel gun and aimed for the roof. The kid was safe now. There was no point in staying any longer, waiting for people who had a warrant out for his arrest.

He kept on climbing as the sounds came closer, making his way to the top of Grand Avenue Station. He caught the quick flash of Robin’s cape as he descended from a rooftop of his own in the distance, following the sound another terrified cry. Jason smiled. ‘Now’ sounded like the perfect time to visit some of his favorite hot spots for pushers.

***

“And that’s for selling crack to middle school kids,” Jason quipped as he put a bullet through the dealer’s knee and watched him stumble and cry out in pain. He contemplated just calling the cops, like he had done for the last two dozen pieces of scum he had taken out tonight, but then decided against it. Tough as it was to believe, this idiot worked for Roger Andrews, who had apparently gone from zero to nightmare in Gotham’s drug scene in the last eight weeks. As much as Jason hated to admit it, this guy was worth more alive than dead. He grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and lifted him up just enough to put some pressure on that knee.

“I’m feeling generous tonight, scumbag, so I’m not gonna kill you. Under one condition...” he brought out one of the guns and shoved it right underneath his chin. “You tell Andrews Red Hood’s back in town. You tell him and any other drug-dealing piece of crap like you that you know. Tell them this is a good time to quit or I’ll fill’em up with lead. Got it?”

“Yes. I do. I will. Please, just let me go!”

“As you wish.” Jason uncurled his fingers and watched him fall face first into the snow again, before dragging his way out of the alley he had been dealing in. Jason grappled back up onto the roof, opened his hood, and took a deep breath.

The air was still cold, but not as bitter and biting as it had been in January. It was Gotham, so the smell was horrendous of course, but it was a familiar smell and that was good enough. He hadn’t removed anyone permanently tonight, but he had made it through eight hours of patrol without getting his ass kicked. That was good enough, too. For a night in which no-one had died at the hands of the Red Hood, Jason felt strangely at peace.

Until he spotted the bat signal in the distance.

He had left Miagani early on, mostly because drug dealing tended to happen much more in the underbelly of Founders Island and in the not so commercial hotspots of Burnley. Bleake was quite distant now and he wondered how long it would take Robin to get back there, after a night on patrol and brother-watching duty. Whatever they had going on at GCPD, it must have been good.

“Red Hood, are you still there?”

“I was about to head home,” Jason answered as he muted the other channels and focused his attention on Oracle’s line. “Let me guess: Robin needs to head for GCPD and there’s a case you need me to pick up for him.”

“Actually...” He could all but hear her bite her lip on the other end of the line. “Actually, I was hoping you could go check out what’s happening at GCPD.”

“You’re kidding me.” Jason rolled his eyes. “I’m Red Hood, Oracle. There’s a warrant out for my arrest. I’m pretty sure half of GCPD hates—“

“Robin ended up in a trap by Joker earlier tonight.”

“What?” The alarm bells in his head were ringing. Even now, years later, even though he knew that the current clown was not the real deal, the name set every system in his mind to red alert. “How bad is it? Where is he?”

“At home. Pumped full of pain blockers. He’ll be okay once he sleeps off the damn laughing gas.” Oracle sighed. “Listen, Red, I wouldn’t be asking this if there was any other way, but I’m not going to send him out there again for at least another two days. Nightwing’s already off comms for tonight. And I couldn’t send Ghost, even if he was available. One look at him up close...”

“... and they’ll know it’s him,” Jason finished for her. “Do we have any idea what GCPD wants?”

“Nothing concrete,” the displeasure was easy to hear in her voice. Barb hated not knowing things. “But GCPD is currently under lockdown.” Jason bristled. That was not good. GCPD did not declare lockdowns unless it involved some serious amount of crazy killer on the loose. Or a chemical or bomb threat. “I have told Cash Robin and Nightwing are not available and he knows what that means,” Barbara finally continued. “He said he still owes you one for Thanksgiving, so he’ll tell them to stand down. I know I’m asking a lot, but I can’t call anyone else.”

“I know.”

But knowing did not necessarily make it any better. With a quick frown, Jason double-checked his ammo supplies. He still had two flash bangs left. The spare ammo was gone, but then again, he was not planning to start shooting people in GCPD. Provided no one in there wore night vision equipment, it would be enough to run if he had to.

“Fine. ETA fifteen minutes. Tell him if any of his guys shoot me, I’ll be shooting back.”

Whatever Oracle’s reply was, it got lost in the last bits of noise of Gotham’s nighttime traffic as he grappled back onto the South Gotham Urbarail line and waited for the next car headed to Gotham Central. The weakened muscles in his legs were already starting to protest, so there was no point in trying to get there on foot.

The car arrived six minutes later and it was all but empty. Jason double-checked to make sure that the two men sitting at the far end of the carriage were truly passed out drunk, then slumped down on one of the benches. It felt like a bad idea. He was pretty sure it was a bad idea, even objectively speaking. And yet, he somehow felt like he was doing the right thing. It was infuriating. It was frustrating. It made him wish he had gone home just half an hour earlier.

Grand Avenue station was significantly busier, but Red Hood ignored the incredulous looks of the waiting passengers as he got out of the car and made his way through the crowds to the far side of the platform. From there, it was only a few grappling jumps left to Mercy Bridge. In the east, far beyond the oil rig, the sea blurred into the horizon. The sun hadn’t started to rise yet and the sky was still dark gray, but the first lark was already chirping somewhere in the distance. He switched to tactical vision as he edged closer to GCPD and counted three armed figures on top of the roof, crowding by the gigantic flood light. Jason took a deep breath, then opened the channel back to Barbara again.

“I’m here, Oracle. Keep an ear on GCPD communications for me, will ya? If they decide to change their minds, I’d like to hear about it before they start pointing guns.”

“Will do. But you’ll be fine, Jason. I know it. Good luck.”

He wanted to tell her that wishing him good luck was really not bolstering her argument. Luck was for people who needed it. Luck was for people who were not headed into the lion’s den. Luck was for people that were not going to be fine.

“Field names, Oracle.”

In his time as Robin, he would have gone straight for the platform with the spotlight. Now, Jason stuck to the one in the middle. There was a tripod here, mounted to the railing, supposedly for snipers covering the entrance. It didn’t look like it had been used in recent times. With one hand close to his guns, Jason walked up to the railing closest to the signal.

“Commissioner Cash.”

The three cops turned around in an instant, and sure enough one of them had her hands on her gun, even if she wasn’t drawing yet. Jason scowled behind his helmet as the face recognition brought up a clear match. Sarah Essen. Barb’s soon to be step-mom. How great.

“Red Hood.” Cash gave him a quick nod, then turned to Sergeant Essen. “At ease. We’re all friends here.”

“Sir, there’s a warrant out for his arrest. For murder.”

“There were warrants out for Batman, too,” the other officer argued. “Can’t recall anyone ever having had a problem with that.”

“Batman didn’t kill.”

“Sergeant Essen, this is not debatable,” Cash fixated her with a stare made of steel. “At. Ease. We are not shooting at the help _we_ called in and we are not shooting at the man who saved an entire room full of cops from certain death by frag grenade. Now, you can either fall in line, or you can stay on this roof top until we’re done. Understood?”

She was seriously considering drawing that pistol and trying to shoot him. Jason had to give credit where credit was due: she had guts. Unfortunately, that did nothing to help the situation.

“If she’s staying up here, then where are we going?”

“Lock-up,” Cash replied as casually as he could, then quickly followed it up with “one of our inmates died under extremely suspicious circumstances and we have no idea what happened there. We need one of you guys to look at the crime scene.”

He laughed. Jason couldn’t help it. It was an instinctive reaction, of course, a primal coping mechanism as old as humanity itself. If the danger is so absurd that you cannot even put it into words: laugh. Oh, but he had words.

“Seriously? You want me, warrant-out-for-his-arrest Red Hood, to go into a building full of cops, into lock-up, to investigate a crime scene in a cell? Is this a joke?”

“You tell us,” Sergeant Essen lobbed back at him. “You’re the one who’s laughing.”

“It’s not a joke,” Cash replied calmly. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t highest priority and I personally promise you that no one’s gonna try to shoot you or lock you up. Not tonight.”

“Promises are cheap.” This had been a bad idea. _I should get the fuck out of here_. “Which inmate are we talking about?”

“Whistler.”

He had been ready to leave. He had been soooo ready to just use his grapnel gun and escape from the roof. Instead, his feet were frozen to the ground. In his ear, Barbara cursed under her breath. If it was Whistler, then there was a ninety-nine percent chance Joker was involved. This could not wait.

“After you, Cash.”

 _I am insane. I have gone clinically insane_ , Jason thought to himself as Cash ordered Essen to stay on the roof, then headed for the elevator. _You are doing the right thing_ , not-Robin retorted as his feet started moving, slowly, like in a trance, following Cash’s steps until the doors closed behind him and the lift started moving down into the belly of the beast. _You are doing the right thing and you know it. You will be fine._

Jason wasn’t so convinced. The disbelieving glares as he stepped out of the elevator did nothing to ease his paranoia.

It was as if someone had suddenly stopped time. All eyes were on him. A phone was ringing at a station to his right, but the officer who should have picked it up instead sat glaring at him as if he was a pink, sparkly unicorn. At another desk, a Detective kept on pouring the remaining half of the coffee can into an over-flowing cup. Of the six cops looking over the outline of a casefile on a whiteboard, five had their hands at their holsters. Jason was pretty sure he could have heard a pin drop.

“Yeah, this was a great idea.”

“At ease, everyone!” Aaron Cash rolled his eyes, then scanned the room quickly. “Let me make this perfectly clear: anyone here even so much as tries to touch or shoot our guest, I’m gonna personally lock them in the infirmary until they’ve calmed the hell down. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” the officer at the phone muttered quickly before grasping the receiver like it was a lifeline. Jason couldn’t blame him. He would have loved to have any excuse not to be dealing with this mess right now, too. All around him, the words were slowly echoed and he caught more than a few notes of resentment in there, but eventually, life returned to the room. Cash waited until everyone had returned to focusing on their given tasks, then led the way to the West Wing, past the containment chamber.

On one hand, knowing that _that_ monstrosity was behind him was good. Jason knew those containment cells. Bruce had built them. Escape would not be an option. On the other, the words “Maximum Security” written on the panel above the door to their destination did nothing to unclench the knot in his gut.

The door labeled “Holding Cells B” was marked with yellow crime scene tape, which Cash tore down quickly. Jason took one step in, then froze on the spot.

“She was in this cell,” Cash motioned towards the unit on the left, where a chalk outline on the floor showed where Whistler had died. Small cod. Dirty toilet. Tiny sink. “She was clawing at the door, screaming that Joker was right behind her and begging for her life. We had barely unlocked the door when she died.”

 _Intel. He’s giving you intel_ , not-Robin pointed out in the back of his mind. _Focus, Jason, this is important. Jason. Jason!_

“Red Hood! Red, are you okay?”

That was Barbara, and Jason was glad that it was her, not Robin, not Nightwing, or – god forbid – Ghost, who was calling out his name. Even though he was sure Cash was talking as well. He was also glad for the helmet and for how it kept his face hidden from the outside world. Cash and the other officers in the room did not need to know that he was staring at this room with wide eyes and a mouth open as an O and dry as a desert.

“Tiles.” The word chafed against the back of his throat like a razor. He was sure he couldn’t have said it out loud, as more than a murmur, even if he had wanted to. “ _Tiles_ all over this _cell_.”

“Oh god.” Barbara knew. She didn’t need to tell him. He could hear it in her voice. She knew.

“Red Hood?”

Cash didn’t know and Jason swallowed hard to get rid of the lump in his throat. _Focus. Priorities. The case. The sooner you deal with the case, the sooner you can get the fuck out of here_.

“Time of death?”

He could hear his own voice reverberate around his skull and it sounded dead. There was no emotion. No inflection. It was fact. Fact, fact, fact, nothing but the facts. He needed to get this over with.

“Almost precisely one hour ago.” Cash checked his watch. “I gave priority to this one, so the autopsy should be underway as we speak.”

“Oracle?”

“Already on it.” He heard her typing in the background, followed by a quick ping as the data popped up on her screen. “Blood sample has been sent for toxicology report, but unless you’ve got something specific for me to look for, it’s gonna take a while.”

Jason took a deep breath, then stepped into the cell.

Cash had been right. Judging from the chalk outline in the door, Gretchen Whistler had been trying to leave her cell when she had died. Her foot steps were all over the room, as were her finger prints. He filtered for prints still containing traces of sweat and tried to re-trace her steps.

She had been lying on the bed, curled underneath her sheets, if the traces on the sheet were anything to go by. Then, there were prints on the wall and on the frame of the bed. They led across the entire back wall, all the way to the sink, where she had clutched the porcelain with both hands. A Styrofoam cup was lying on the floor, riddled with prints, a few drops of water still leaking from it. Jason bent down to examine it, only for Cash to chime in.

“We already checked the cup. Sent everything for toxicological analysis, but she got the same water everybody else in lockup does. And no-one else has died.”

 _Not yet_ , Jason thought, but he kept that remark to himself. Judging from the print trail he was seeing, Whistler had tried to drink tap water only _after_ realizing that something was wrong.

“Was someone in the room when she died?”

“Sergeant Marlow,” Cash answered. “Been a cop for six years now. She went to get a cup of coffee, like she does every morning, came back to find Whistler clawing at the bars.”

“Like she did every morning...” Jason finished his round back at the door and stepped out of the cell quickly. He felt a little better immediately, but there were still way too many fucking tiles under his feet. “This was a planned assassination. Someone was very thorough.”

“Someone was impossibly quick.” Cash frowned at him. “Sergeant Marlow was gone for maybe a minute. The only way in here is through a corridor crawling with cops. We would have seen if someone had snuck in here.”

 _Yeah, the hall is crawling with cops_ , Jason thought. _Thanks for reminding me of that_. He swept the room once more for evidence, but found nothing. Then, his eyes fell on the ventilation shaft above the sink.

The grating was back in place, but the screws were missing. Jason tore it open and inspected the shaft behind it. The square-foot tunnel was littered with little dots of sweat. Jason grabbed a swab from one of the pockets inside his jacket, took a sample, and sealed it. He turned back to Cash and pointed at the shaft.

“This is how your assassin got in.”

“Are you kidding me?” Cash inspected the opening with doubt written all over his face. “You’d have to be a bird to get in through that!”

“Or a snake.” He brought up the connection to his databases on his visor and opened the firewalls, then switched to a private channel. “Oracle, I am giving you temporary access to my old databases. Cross-reference the results from Whistler’s blood analysis against tetrodotoxins in my Bio Toxins database.”

“’By old database’ you mean...”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.” The Arkham Knight’s databases. The one that was a cabinet of horrors and wrong choices. “Just do the search and let me know when it’s done. I don’t want to—“

“Done.” Barbara sounded both exhilarated and displeased at the same time. “What’s Tetrodotoxin D494?”

 _Oh fuck._ He had expected it, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Jason grimaced as he kicked her out of the database and put the firewalls back in place. The comms channel remained open though, even though his attention was once more on Cash.

“The substance that killed Gretchen Whistler is Tetrodotoxin D494, an experimental mutated version of puffer fish poison. It is commonly used by the Copperheads.”

“Copperhead?” Cash scratched the back of his head. “Wasn’t that one of the assassins that came after Batman years ago? The Spanish contortionist chick?”

“Latin-American,” Jason corrected. “And it might be her. It might be someone else. ‘Copperhead’ is an alias used for multiple operatives from the same South American organization. No-one knows how many there are at any given point, or whether they are male or female. They use a bunch of these poisons and unless you’ve got someone who’s small enough to crawl up that vent, we’re done here.”

He was already halfway out the door when his mind did a back take. Jason scowled.

“And if you did have someone small enough to crawl up that vent, I’d shoot you for suggesting it.”

He had seen it happen often enough, back in the streets when he had still been a kid. Crawlers. Kids hired to sneak into places adults could not get into. Dangerous jobs from start to finish and sometimes even beyond. Sometimes, even if done successfully. It took him all he had to suppress the shudder that wanted to trickle down his spine as the memories of that night in the Coventry threatened to resurface.

“Oracle...” He wanted to hear anything but that. Anything but the echo of the rain and the howling laughter of those men and his own screams of pain. “Deploy a spider drone to the GCPD roof top. I’m gonna send it through the vents to look for evidence.” The walk back to the elevator was no shorter than the way to the cell, but at least Cash was by his side again and no-one was pointing guns, as promised. That was a good thing. “Also... can you tell me what else they’ve got from the autopsy so far?”

“Sure, I’ll send you—“

“No!” It had come out a lot angrier than he had wanted, and Jason forced his voice down in volume and aggressiveness as the elevator doors opened. “Just... tell me... in your own words. Please.”

“Okay.”

Oracle had always been a champion at tucking entire paragraphs into one word and Jason was grateful for that. She didn’t have to say ‘I understand, this is not about the facts, it’s just about you hearing a human voice, a friendly voice, that’s not shouting or crying or trying to mess you up, just conversation and distraction, I’ve got it’. All she said was ‘okay’, before starting to read out the results of the coroner’s investigation, beginning with the cause of death. It was morbid for calm-down reading, but there was a certain familiarity to it that allowed him to breathe at last.

Jason stepped out of the elevator the moment the doors opened, rushed past Sergeant Essen, and looked up just in time to see the drone descend from the sky. He motioned for Cash and the others to stand back, retrieved the spider from its nesting place inside the drone, and stepped back to watch the drone casing go up in a flare. Thirty seconds later, the drone was ash and Jason was configuring the protocols on the spider. It was smaller than the ones he had produced for his hideout as the Arkham Knight, but then again, these little babies were no longer meant for clean-up and maintenance, just recon and evidence collection.

“What the hell was that?” Cash pointed to where Sergeant Denning was pushing at the smoldering heap of ash with his boot, then at the spider. “And what is that?”

“This,” Jason explained as he handed him the drone, “is a recon drone. I have uploaded GCPD’s ventilation system to its database.” He indicated the small button hidden beneath the head plate. “Put it into the shaft in Whistler’s cell and push this button. The drone will climb through the ventilation system and map all traces of organic material – blood, sweat—“

“Rats?”

“Yeah, rats, too,” Jason sighed. Sergeant Essen grinned.

“Well, that should help us justify the next bill we sent to the maintenance department for an exterminator call-out.”

“More importantly, it will help us find out where our assassin got in, even though I’m pretty sure he or she is already gone. Robin will come by after sundown to collect the drone and analyze its data. And please don’t try to tamper with it yourself.” He pointed at the remains of the transport capsule. “As you can see from the air drop drone, all our tech is set to basically melt down to scraps after it has fulfilled its function.”

He had been expecting protests at his methods, possibly even another threat from Sergeant Essen. Instead, Cash merely nodded and held up the spider.

“Thank you, Red Hood. We’ll get this back to Robin tonight, no worries.”

 _And now we can get out of here,_ not-Robin helpfully reminded him _._ Jason didn’t need to be told twice. He broke into a run, jumped, and grappled off into the direction of Falcone shipping. He was halfway to his safe-house when the comms line crackled again and Barbara’s voice came back through his audio filters.

“That was great work, Red Hood. I’m really proud of you.”

“For what?” He double-checked his surroundings, then settled for a perch on one of the Clock Tower gargoyles. By now, the sky was starting to turn a bit brighter at the edge and the border between the stormy sea around Gotham and the cloudy sky was becoming barely visible. “Copperhead got away. The data from the drone may help, and I’ll try to trace the money and comms channels first chance this afternoon, but it could still take days if not weeks to find him or her. If we do at all. Not to mention, Whistler is dead. She was our main lead into the corruption at Blackgate. Our main lead to Joker. This was not a good way to end the night.”

“I disagree.” Jason could practically hear her smile through the line. It was a soft smile, a warm smile, like the ones he had seen from her so often during his time as Robin in training. “Work-wise... yeah, this sucks. You’re right. Whistler’s dead and we’ve got some crazy, contortionist, poison-wielding South American assassin on the loose, but I couldn’t care less about that right now.”

“What do you care about?”

“I care about my little brother,” Barb said without hesitation. “I care about the fact that he knowingly and willingly walked into a place full of people who had the right and the motivation to arrest to him, because that’s what the job required. I care about the fact that he spent a grand total of eighteen minutes in a room covered in tiles, with barred gates, no less, even though I know it triggers his PTSD. I care that he trusted me with access to databases no-one is supposed to see, because the situation called for it. I care that he was brave enough to ask for help when he needed it. You did great, Red. I’m proud of you. Robin and Nightwing would be, too, if they were here.”

“Thanks. I guess.” He didn’t really know what to say about it. Praise had been alien concept for most of his life. It still felt weird. It still felt like he was waiting for the punch line. “Ghost wouldn’t be.”

“Ghost can go sit on a cactus, for all I care.”

That actually made him laugh. Jason leaned back against the wall and watched the sky grow brighter in the distance. There was even a tiny bit of the sun poking out just above the horizon. The weather report had mentioned that there was warmer weather coming. It would be nice.

“Thanks, Oracle. I should get back to my safe-house now. I need some hot tea. And sleep. Sleep would be nice.”

“You know, you’re always welcome back here, you know. We’ve got tea a-plenty. And the coziest beds in all of Gotham.”

“You think I’d want to go back after barely just escaping from you guys?”

“I’m not saying you want to,” Barbara rolled her eyes. He just knew it, even without seeing it. “Nor am I saying that you should. But, you know, if you ever _want_ to actually be in the company of your crazy relatives: 1007 Mountain Drive. Always an option.”

“Duly noted.” Jason sighed and stretched, then plotted his fastest way to the safe-house. Three minutes until a hot shower. _Hallelujah!_ “Good night, Oracle.”


	32. Misery Loves Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce's week begins with him standing in front of his own grave on his own birthday. And it would not be the worst part by a long shot...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: graphic violence and character death in the last part (Jason's POV)
> 
> Holy finale, Batman! Call this the beginning of the end, because this is one of the chapters that I have been looking forward to writing for months now and we are headed for the endgame, folks.  
> Google search tag for this chapter: Thomas Wayne Martha Wayne grave [you would not believe how many different version there are of the damn things]
> 
> For status updates, writing trivia, fandom/fanfiction/writing related questions and occasional random ramblings, please visit my tumblr: http://lananiscorner.tumblr.com/

_Bruce Wayne_

_Feb. 19th 1977_

_Nov. 1st 2015_

_Prince of Gotham_

_Savior of Many_

He put the white lilies down gently. They were not for Bruce Wayne. Not really. But it made for a good excuse. It made sense that the Ghost who now watched over Gotham would visit his predecessor’s grave on his birthday.

_My grave._

The words still tasted strange on Bruce’s tongue. He doubted he would ever fully get used to it, and yet, to all but a handful of people, Bruce Wayne was dead and gone forever. Sometimes he thought it was better that way.

Sometimes he saw the lie for what it was.

“I made a terrible mistake,” Bruce said under his breath as he took a careful step backwards and looked slightly to the right, where Martha Wayne’s own headstone stood, guarded by the wings of a praying angel. There was no need for the caution, of course. He had motion sensors stacked around the perimeter in a thirty-feet radius, but old habits died hard. “Perhaps the most terrible mistake I have ever made. I’m sorry, mother.”

She would be disappointed, that much Bruce was sure of. She would be utterly disappointed and ashamed, if she could see how he had abandoned his family. He had done it with the best intentions. He had wanted to keep them safe. He had wanted to offer them a fresh start and, at first, it even seemed to have worked.

However, the last three months had been more than eye-opening.

The fresh start had not been fresh. Dick was still Nightwing. Tim was still Robin. Barbara was still Oracle. They had adapted and changed slightly, to make up for the void left by Batman and poorly filled by Ghost, but at the core, none of them had changed. Just like the manor had been rebuilt, piece by piece, down to the smallest details in the statues right inside the entrance and the carpet in the dining room, the ones he had left behind had continued in their duties. Barbara and Tim had married, but that was more of a logical evolution of their existing relationship, rather than a whole new, promising development. They had greeted the opportunity to make a clean cut and live a normal life, and then they had gotten back onto the train and waved goodbye as it disappeared in the distance.

And safe? Bruce would have laughed, had he not been standing in front of his parents’ graves, with his children’s near-misses fresh on his mind. Dent had kidnapped Barbara and had nearly killed her. Dick had nearly been poisoned and blown up. Robin... Tim had attracted death like a light a swarm of moths – nearly drowned, nearly blown up, definitely-not-nearly gassed by the new Joker... That memory was still far too young in Bruce’s mind, only two days old. The way the warehouse had filled with clouds of green. Tim’s cough that had turned into hysteric laughter. The disorientation it had caused and that had nearly ended with him walking straight off the roof... Had Bruce not been tailing Jason, he would not have been anywhere near the place. He would never have made it in time and that thought was more chilling than the wind and the snow all around him, more ghastly than the locale. He had insisted on driving Tim back to the manor, regardless of how much they did not want him to ever set foot on its grounds again, if only to make sure that he would get home safe and to have those twenty minutes of having the visual and auditory confirmation that his third son was still alive and breathing.

And Jason... where should he even begin? Bruce shook his head as the memories came back. The exploding spider robot that had sent shrapnel into his shoulder, Waylon Jones’ attack, and, worst of all, the way he had nearly taken his own life on New Year’s Eve, the terror in his eyes as Bruce had approached him and the determination hidden beneath it, the titanium-tempered resolution to rather be dead than back with him. Bruce liked to think that Jason had seen Joker, in that moment, but he knew that was only one possibility. There had been no fear gas involved, after all. Dick had not been joking, he had not been over-protective or deliberately spiteful when he had told Bruce that Jason did not want him anywhere near him, that he was constantly waiting for Bruce to give up on him. Dick had been honest. So had Alfred, even if his words had hurt more than most injuries Bruce had ever suffered in his life.

_“Trust and respect should never be given freely. They should be based on a parent’s performance.”_

Alfred had been right. He had also been right when he had told Bruce his performance so far had been abysmal. Yes, his children were still alive. Yes, they were as safe as anyone in their line of work could be. Yes, they had moved on from the loss of their father. But Bruce had had nothing to do with it. Nothing he had done had made it any easier for them. They were where they were because they had looked after each other and as much as Bruce disapproved of the methods Jason had employed to keep them safe, there was no denying the results. They were alive because of Red Hood. They were alive, because the son Bruce had run from, the son he had compartmentalized into a category outside of good and evil, the son who had tried to killed him, then saved his life, the son he was so helpless and scared to deal with, had been too strong to die and too stubborn to take the easy way out. As always.

Some things never changed.

“I wish you were here, father.” Bruce eyed Thomas Wayne’s grave with a mix of grief and trepidation. “I fear you’d be disappointed to see what I have become, but I wish you were here.”

Thomas had always known just what to do. Try as he might, Bruce could not think of a single day or a single night, not even a single minute, that his father had failed to be a good parent. Granted, he had never had to parent a street-raised, PTSD-ridden thirteen-year-old, but Bruce had no reason to doubt that his father would have done a better job with Jason than Bruce ever had. He would have done a better job with all of them, and the void in his head where parenting knowledge passed on from father to son should be did not help.

“What am I going to do with him?” It was a question for both of them. For Martha. For Thomas. “He killed. He has brought so much pain and destruction...”

Yet there was no prison that would be able to hold Jason, Bruce was sure of that. He could throw him into Blackgate or Pena Dura, it would make no difference. Jason would find a way to escape and God only knew what he would do _after_ that. What it would do to _Jason._ Legally speaking, it was the right option. It was justice.

“His brothers would hate me. Barbara would hate me. Alfred... I’m not sure what he would do.”

Bruce didn’t want to think about it. He knew the answer. Alfred would continue serving him, like he had had all his life, and every second of it would be hiding deeply buried contempt and disappointment, caused by a pain that stuck like a thorn.

“What would _you_ think of me?”

The question was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. For a moment, Bruce wanted to curse at his slip of self-control, at this flop in focus. But it felt... good, somehow. It felt _right_. The question was finally out in the open. There was no more hiding, no more worrying. The burden was no longer his. It would not change the fact that he would not get any answer. It would not change the fact that the answer was ultimately irrelevant, because the people whose judgment he was asking for were no longer around to judge him, much less to follow through with consequences. But it felt good having said it at last. Bruce took a deep breath and sighed as his communicator came online. He pushed the necessary buttons and watched as the video footage Alfred had relayed to him, started coming through the holo link.

It was Nigma’s broadcast, even though it was no longer his show. Bruce forced himself not to bristle as he watched Jason tear into and through a gauntlet of death traps. He had only just left the manor ten days ago. He should not be putting his body through that much stress, but when had that ever stopped Jason? Four minutes later, a hostage had been saved and Nigma’s voice had dissolved into incoherent rambling.

“Not to presume, sir,” Alfred muttered softly through the comms link, “but I am quite proud of the boy.”

“I know.”

 _What you really meant to say was ‘please look at this evidence that your son is not an irredeemable monster’_ , Bruce thought to himself as he cut the link. Above the graves, the angel looked down on him, morphing the question he had asked and the words Alfred had not spoken into the one question that really mattered:

_What would you think of yourself?_

Another question Bruce was not sure he wanted answered. Another question that weighed down his conscience. He lit the candles on all three graves and looked at the tombstones of his parents once more.

“What would you do with him?”

The graves did not answer.

***

“I don’t know where he is! I swear!”

Ghost cocked his head and glared at the terrified man who had turned all but petrified in his grasp. Even with half the snow melted away, the green and purple stood out like a sore thumb. Subtlety had never been Joker’s strength.

And yet here they were.

How Joker had managed to rally his troops and build up his numbers so quickly, despite having only just escaped from hospital, despite having half the bones in his body broken by Nightwing, was anyone’s guess, but he had done it. Bruce hadn’t noticed at first and he blamed no-one for that but himself. He had been too distracted watching over Red Hood during his first nights back in town, and later over Robin as well. Jason had thankfully and hopefully not noticed him. Robin had rolled his eyes and thrown little stabs of accusations his way any chance he got. The message was clear – _I’m no longer a kid. Back off. You have more important things to worry about._

Well, here was one important thing that had slipped his attention. He wasn’t much, bottom of the barrel as far as criminal cerebral matter went, but strong enough to swing a bat and smart enough to use a gun. More importantly, he was one of many. Somehow, while Ghost had not been looking, Joker had managed to not only assassinate one of his closest associates, but also rally a small army of thugs. The numbers he could deal with. The implication that Joker had recovered well enough to actually look like a veritable threat and a credible employer in Gotham’s underworld? _That_ was concerning.

“If you lied to me, I’ll make every nightmare you see come true.”

Recognition sparked in the man’s eyes. Bruce was not surprised. Every crook in Gotham had had Batman growl at him at least once. He was bound to remember, but it wouldn’t matter. With practiced ease, Ghost retrieved the syringe from its pouch, injected Joker’s henchman, and refilled the vial. He zip-tied him to the nearest drainage pipe and headed back onto the roof, while the modified fear gas started doing it’s job and erasing the thug’s short-term memory.

“Alfred.” He took a deep breath to quell the frustration that wanted to rise up from his gut. “Tell me your research has been more successful than mine.”

“I shall live to see the day...” Alfred sighed over the comms line. “I have investigated every alias known to have been used by the Joker, every connected bank account, fund, and intercepted comms channel, but there have been no recent transactions in the dimensions required to pay a Copperhead.”

Bruce wanted to curse and it was only half a life of proper education that made him halt his tongue. He was starting to understand at least part of the reason why Jason had always been so crass.

“I agree, sir, which is why I asked Red Hood to tap into his... less conventional resources to see if he can find a connection. He assured me he had been on this task for a few days already and he would let us know if he unearthed any important information.”

“Good.”

Bruce cut the link and continued back on his normal patrol route, taking only quick detours to follow the sounds of sirens and the occasional GCPD dispatch call. That explained why Red Hood had barely shown up on the rooftops over the week since Bruce Wayne’s birthday. It was a relief. Bruce had imagined a dozen other reasons for Jason’s sudden reclusiveness and none of them had been good.

He was just about to call it a night and head back to Bracken when the big screen promoting trips to sunny Santa Prisca crackled with black-and-white static, then glowed in fluorescent green.

“Why hello there, Gotham! It is I, Edward Nigma! Your intellectual savior and superior!”

Bruce wanted to roll his eyes. _Not again. Not_ him _of all people..._ It was too late in the morning for having to deal with more of Riddler’s stupidity, and yet, underneath the obvious annoyance, the more analytical parts of his mind clicked into gear. Something was off about this broadcast.

“I wish I had the time to impress on you all the magnificence and utmost importance of tonight’s festivities, but – alas – my time is infinitely more precious than yours.” On the screen, the half-smile that had graced Nigma’s face quickly turned into a serious frown. There was a fury in his eyes that all but sapped the jovial demeanor from the speech. “No, I only have time for you, preposterous pretender, and you will only have time for me. They call you the ghost of the Batman... well, we shall see if you are even worthy to be called a shadow. Riddle me this: where did the Tiny man keep the big monster all week? Do you know, ‘detective’? You had better. Because the lives of two young men depend on it.” Suddenly, the grin was back. There was no laughter, but that only made it worse. Nigma was always worse when he got quiet. “Do feel free to bring help... if you can...”

 _If you can..._ That did not sound good at all. He opened the joint comms channel the instant Riddler’s broadcast cut out.

“Nightwing. Robin. Come in.”

All that came in reply was static silence and Bruce felt dread curl in his gut like a frozen snake. He switched to the private channel reserved for Nightwing and tried again. Silence. Robin’s channel... Silence. This was very definitely not good. Red Hood—

The link was cut before he had even had the chance to say a single word and Bruce allowed himself a tiny moment of relief. Jason was there. Probably busy and hating his guts right now for the interruption, but he was there.

“Oracle—“

“I’m already on it.” There was no doubt about that. He could hear her frantic typing in the background and the soft curses she muttered under her breath. “I can’t reach Nightwing _nor_ Robin. On none of our frequencies.”

“Trackers?”

“Not responsive, but no emergency ping for deactivation or battle damage either. They are probably jammed. I just talked to them fifteen minutes ago. I have to give Nigma credit for quick action.”

‘ _I am also going to put my fists in his face the next time I see him’_ was what Barbara didn’t say, but it swung underneath the words just the same. Bruce couldn’t agree more.

“Last location?”

“They were on a stakeout, trying to arrest Riddler’s two groupies near Pioneers Bridge.”

 _Pioneers Bridge..._ Bruce grimaced at the memories that welled up inside him. Firefly blowing up the bridge, So many people nearly dying because of one arrogant, corrupt SWAT officer... _Where did the Tiny man keep the big monster all week? Tiny. A big monster. All week._

“Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday.”

“Excuse me?”

“A big monster, kept all week,” Bruce explained as he called in the Batwing Mk3 and grappled up into the cockpit. “Riddler’s message refers to where the tiny man, Penguin, kept the big monster, Solomon Grundy. It could also reference his shark, Tiny. Either way, they’ll be at—“

“The old Iceberg Lounge,” Barbara concluded for him. “In Arkham City. This is getting better and better. I’ll inform GCPD and—“

“No.” he had to cut her off right there. Beneath the Batwing, Bleake Island rushed past in a flurry of neon lights. “There’s a good chance he’ll have the museum and the lounge set up like a giant death trap and I don’t have time to babysit anyone in going through it. Not to mention he might kill Robin or Nightwing or both of them if he suspects outside intervention.”

“He was always crazy-prepared, the damn bastard.”

“I’ll get them back, Oracle.” He hoped, but that was not what she needed to hear. “I’ll be there in four minutes.”

***

It ended up taking three minutes and thirty-two seconds. Ghost sent the aircraft into stealth mode as he approached and landed on a nearby roof. He had walked all of six steps in the direction of the Lounge’s back entrance when the signals in his cowl went haywire. He could tell the jammers were inside the museum, but that did not help. With a deep scowl, Bruce took a step back and opened his comms link.

“Signals are jammed. Contact Red Hood. Tell him everything he needs to know.”

“I’ve already tried.” He could _hear_ her roll her eyes through the link. “He keeps ignoring me, even though I’m contacting him on our emergency channel.” There was a pause, silent but for the wind rustling his cape. Then, a sharp breath. “Did you two fight again?”

“No.” It was the truth, although Bruce knew she wouldn’t believe it. He had crossed too many lines, abused Barbara’s trust too many times, to have any goodwill left. “Keep calling Jason. I’m going in.”

This time, it was his turn to cut the line. Bruce grappled in swiftly, tore through the rubble blocking his path to the door and opened it with a solid kick.

The air that greeted him from inside the lounge was cold and stale as a grave, even though Gotham had gotten warmer every day and the building had been set on fire by missile strikes during Protocol 10. All around him, the walls had started gathering mold, rotting away in the damp. Water dripped somewhere, slowly and unstoppably, while the wind howled through some unseen crack in the wall. The ceiling was sprinkling dust, but still remarkably intact. In the half-dark of dawning twilight, Ghost moved forward methodically, one step at a time, careful of any hidden trip wires.

The lounge itself was empty, as were the few side-rooms that were still in a good enough state to get into, and Grundy’s pit. The living corpse was long gone, of course, but the heavy shackles remained. Bruce frowned as he looked at the unforgiving metal. He had broken his rule against lethal takedowns with Grundy, because there were no _lethal_ takedowns with that monster. Right now, there was a dark, nagging part in his heart that wished to do the same with Nigma.

The hall to the trophy room was just as he had left it, a damaged picture of its former glory. The skeletons and the guns and ammo had been removed from the various display cases, but the images were burnt into Bruce’s memory. As he approached the doors on the other end, the jamming signal got stronger, until it finally turned his vision into a grainy storm of various grays. The comms unit was broadcasting screeching static. With one last, deep breath, Ghost turned off all feedback loops in his cowl and stepped through the door.

The jammers were in the middle of the room, set up in a circle around the center column. The floor below was littered with trip wires and booby traps, some more cleverly hidden then others. The grating that had hung from the ceiling had been removed and the theft sensors that left a thin mesh of laser lines just two feet over his head glowed in bright red. There were more of them the deeper he looked into the room and they were positioned lower and lower against the floor. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he triggered them. At best, Nigma had turned them into real lasers and they would destroy his equipment. At worst, they would trigger some change on the other side of the room.

The entrance leading to the museum’s front had been sealed shut with cement and even though Bruce could not see the side doors at the edges of the maze before him, he could see the space under the front balcony. And it was not good.

Between the grated balcony floor leading to the door and the tiles on the true ground, two cells had been put, separated by two feet of concrete. The front was glass, but Bruce was ready to bet his head that it was bullet-proof, tempered, and re-inforced to the point where any ranged attack would be inadvisable. In the cell to the left, Robin was lying unconscious. In the cell to the left, Nightwing stirred feebly.

“Nightwing!”

Somehow, his voice still carried across the room. Bruce waited as it echoed across the hall, then shouted again. In the concrete cage, Dick rolled over onto his knees and pushed himself up slowly. His movements were sluggish and unrefined, yet there was barely a scratch on his suit. _Tranquilizer_. It would explain how he had fallen off comms without sending the slightest distress signal. The right poison shot straight into the blood stream could knock out anyone in seconds. Bruce flinched as he leaned against the reinforced glass and shook the sleepiness off slowly. There must have been some hole in the cage if his voice had reached Dick.

“Ghost?”

“Stay where you are, Nightwing! I’m coming to get you.”

“Oh, I don’t believe you want to do that just yet, my chiropteran copycat!” Riddler’s voice echoed through the room, bouncing off every wall and the ceiling. Without the cowl, it was hard to pinpoint the origin, although Bruce would not have been surprised if there had been a speaker near each of the cameras dotting the ceiling. “Not unless you want to kill off candidate number two at least. Let’s wake up the little bird, shall we?”

The gas sifted into the cell slowly, through a vent in the right-hand wall, like a cloud of dirt-yellow haze. Only a few moments later, Tim was coughing and wheezing and Bruce winced. He had only just survived Joker’s laughing gas. His lungs were nowhere near ready for this.

He was going to break Eddie into pieces.

“What... the...” Tim kept on coughing as he got up, but eventually he ended up with his forehead and palms pressed against the glass, just like his brother. “Where am I?”

“Where are _we_ , you mean.” The satisfaction was unmistakable in Riddler’s voice, but something was missing. Something was off. Bruce could not yet quite put his finger on it, but his gut told him to be careful. “Welcome to my new and improved Riddletorium! Tonight, you all have the privilege of being intricate pieces of my latest, my greatest, my most spectacular master plan.”

“Oh God, please don’t let him read the rules again,” Dick groaned. His voice was still shot, but the lightheartedness was there, as always.

Nigma seemed undeterred.

“What you see before you, ‘Ghost of the Batman’, is a mirrored labyrinth of beautifully designed and lovingly crafted death traps. The rules for tonight are simple: At the beginning of each track just below the platform you are standing on now, there is a pressure plate. Touch either plate within the next five minutes and a gate will rise, preventing you from changing your mind. It will also trigger a ten-second countdown, allowing you to say goodbye to the sidekick you chose _not_ to save, before the ground below his feet will explode into a colorful shower of concrete and pieces of vigilante. Should you not make your choice within the next five minutes, both explosives will detonate. Good luck!”

A ticking, green timer lit up above the entrance he had come through and Bruce froze as Nigma’s laughter started fading into the dark. There had to be a way to circumvent, to disarm, the mechanism, but without his cowl, he was blind and there was no way to the timer without going through the lasers. There was no obvious wiring, no open circuits anywhere in sight. The jammers were the same ones Penguin had used during his time in Arkham City, restored to a functioning state, and that they were positioned inside the maze, outside of his reach.

“Well, at least someone’s gonna have a blast.”

“Really? Now?” Tim rolled his eyes. “This is kind of serious, Nightwing. In case you haven’t noticed, all our signals are jammed.”

“Oh, I did notice,” but it hadn’t been enough to stop him. Bruce watched as Dick started pacing along the walls of his cell, pressing his ears to the concrete and knocking lightly against the walls. “Five minutes ain’t too bad. We’ve had worse before.”

Tim scowled and turned his attention back to Ghost. “Does Oracle know we’re here?”

“Yes.” Bruce couldn’t quite tell whether it was relief or regret that flashed over Robin’s face as he closed his eyes and set out to check his own cell for weak points. “So does Red Hood. He will be here soon.”

“Oh, I doubt that, my impersonating investigator,” Nigma’s voice sounded again. “He will be stuck in a death trap of his very own by now, and we won’t even have to get our hands dirty.”

“We?”

“Nina Damfino and Deirdre Vance,” Dick explained as he finished his investigation of the walls. It did not look good. He tried the vent next, but it was firmly set into the concrete and whatever metal it was made of was strong enough to resist any pulling and pushing. “Red Hood figured it out. They are the reason we were near Pioneer’s Bride. We were staking out their apartment to arrest them. They are also responsible for the nail polish murders and Whistler’s death.”

Ghost thought back to the case files they had been sifting through for the last few weeks. The sites where the bodies had been dropped had formed an R on an aerial map. R for Riddler. The nail polish made sense, if Riddler was not the one who positioned the bodies. He thought back to the causes of death, to the coroner reports. Acid, fire, electricity, blunt force trauma, deep incisions... there was a good chance all of it had been in preparation for this gauntlet of traps. He would need as much of the information as he could, later. Once Red Hood arrived.

 _He is going to come_ , Bruce told himself. Jason might hate him, but he didn’t hate Barbara. Or Dick or Tim for that matter. He would come. If he wasn’t—

“What did you mean with ‘death trap of his own’?”

This time, the laughter was not Eddie’s voice and now Bruce knew what had been off about the audio and video. The voice had sounded mechanical, slightly distorted, and in the video Nigma’s hair had been longer than in the recording of his failed trap for Red Hood in the abandoned puppy mill. It had been an old recording. An old recording and a voice modulator.

“Where is Nigma?”

“Gone,” Nina Damfino sounded positively delighted, now that the charade had been dropped together with the modulator. “He is long gone, although he is watching this performance. And once you are done mourning the bits and pieces left of the one you chose to let die, we will follow him.”

“Red Hood does not know that though,” Deirdre added, clearly enjoying herself way too much. “We planted some hints here... some traces there... He thinks he’s infiltrating The Riddler’s main hideout right now...”

Nina giggled. “Well, it’s someone’s hideout alright. I do hope there’ll be video. We could all use good _laugh_.”

“You miserable bitch!” Bruce could not access Nightwing’s vital readings, but he didn’t have to. Everything from his rigid posture to his dark scowl to the fury in his voice betrayed his emotions. “I swear, when I get my hands on you, I’m putting you in a full body cast!”

“You heard him, Ghost.” Robin had stopped his own inspection, fruitless as well. His eyes were fixated on the counter above the door. Bruce followed his stare and bristled. “You know what you have to do.”

_Fifty-two seconds._

“I am not leaving either of you to die.”

“As much as I love watching you ‘pull the third’ option card, it might not be in the deck today.” Dick rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath. He was not even moving his lips, but Bruce just knew he was counting to seven. It was an old trick he had taught them. When Dick opened his eyes again, the azure blue was cold and resolute. “Better step to the right, Ghost. Get Robin. Get out.”

“Are you nuts?” Tim pounded hard against the glass and turned to his right. He couldn’t see Dick through the concrete of course, but that didn’t seem to matter. “You’re better than me!”

Dick laughed softly. “No-one’s better than anyone, Robin. We’re all awesome in our own ways, but if I survive this and you don’t, BG is gonna kill me. Besides, I _did_ kill Joker. Karma is a bitch.”

“Ghost, he’s delusional! Don’t listen to a damn word he says! Get him out!”

“Robin—“

 _This can’t be happening_. Bruce squeezed his eyes shut, then looked at the empty hallway behind his back, then at the counter. _Twenty-one seconds_. He didn’t want to decide. He had already lost a son once. Hadn’t that been enough? Or was this his _karma_ catching up on him, a punishment for all the many ways in which he had failed them before?

_Jason is right-handed. When he gets here, his first instinct will be to go to the right._

Bruce stepped to the left.

On the other side of the room, Robin stopped his heated argument with Nightwing and smiled. He stepped into the farthest corner of his cell and spoke softly instead, too soft for Bruce to hear. Perhaps it was a prayer. Perhaps they were words of comfort. Tim had made his peace. In the cell to his left, Nightwing’s face warped into a mask of disgust and betrayal.

“Don’t you DARE, Ghost! Get back onto the other side right now!” Bruce didn’t move. Dick’s fist hit the glass. “I SAID ‘MOVE’ GODDAMN IT!”

 _It’s going to be alright._ He wanted to say it out loud, but the words were stuck in his throat. He had to trust in Jason. There was no other way.

***

 _Well, this sucks._ Jason cursed under his breath as he evaded another barrage of machine gun fire. He had been prepared for another riddle room, another death trap. He had even anticipated a small army of robots. But this... One of the masked clowns circled around to his position and Jason shot him in the shoulder quickly. _Not lethal._ It was pathetic what those eight weeks in the manor had done to him.

He had to give Eddie credit: as diversions went, this was pretty good. He could only hope that Nightwing and Robin were having more success and that Ghost was not going to show up any second now to screw things up. He reloaded his guns, reached for a flashbang, and threw it straight into the crowd in the center of the room.

He moved quickly, using the cover there to deliver a roundhouse kick with his left foot, then quickly took out the snipers on the balconies. This time, he went for the heads. The last thing he needed were four guys with high-powered sniper rifles waking up again while he was in the middle of kicking ass.

The remaining machine gunners were next, and he dove directly at them while the smoke was slowly clearing. There was no time to take apart the guns, but he threw them as far away as he could, then knocked out each gunman in turn. As much as he hated it, it almost felt good using his fists and throws again, rather than kicks and shots. Somewhere in the deep, dark, unconscious folds of his mind, it evoked a subtle memory of a time long gone. Simpler. Safer.

“And stay down!”

The last thug went down with a heavy thud. Jason rolled his shoulders and inhaled deeply, then started working his way around the room, zip-tying every crook that was not pushing daisies. It felt weird even carrying restraints again. He hadn’t needed them in ages. Now, after almost an hour of working his way through this abandoned daycare center full of green-and-purple goons, he was almost out again.

He was just about to tie up the last two when he heard it.

The steps were the same, pointed, almost skipping, and so was the laughter, hysterical and menacing. Jason pulled his guns on sheer instinct, took cover behind the nearest piece of old furniture that had not yet been turned into holey cheese, and activated his tactical visor.

He strolled in through the front entrance, as if he had no care in the world, as if there had not been gaggles of unconscious goons littering the hall. His hair was the same shade of green, his skin the same pale white. The red of his lips dripped like blood.

 _You can do this_ , Jason took a deep breath. _It’s not the real deal. You can do this._

He vaulted back over the cabinet and emptied both magazines. Somehow, the fake Joker was even faster than the original, almost fluid in his motions. When he ran out of ammo, Jason readied a flashbang. As predicted, Joker reached for his own gun, trying to seize the time he would need to prep the grenade. Jason stepped to the side instead, forcing himself not to wince as the revolver shot rang loudly through the room, crawling into his hear and bouncing around his skull. The scar on his sternum ached in memory of the last time he had come this close to death by bullet. With an angry frown, Jason dropped the grenade, reached for his Batclaw, and zip-kicked straight into Joker.

Jason felt the impact faintly in his ankle. Joker felt it harshly in his back. The collision with the pillar behind him shattered one of this collar bones, but that was nowhere near enough. In the few seconds it took not-Joker to get up again, Jason crossed the distance and slammed him back up against the support. There were no zip-ties long enough to cover the pillar, but he could use the claw. With swift, practiced motions, Jason wrenched the clown’s arms backwards and secured them with his Batclaw line. When he took a few steps back again, Joker was smiling once more.

“Woohoo! Well, lookie there, Mr. Red Hood! You actually got me!”

“Shut up, Clown!” He grabbed the nearest thing he could find – a broken, rusty steel pipe – and struck it hard against the narrow jaw. The bone broke with a sickening crunch. It was music to his ears. “I’ve heard enough of you to last me a lifetime.”

One of his comms channels beeped, just as he readied for the next swing. The anger that had spiked in his gut quickly turned into full-blown fury as he caught the channel ID. Bruce. _Of course. Now. Fuck you._ He swiped the call away and raised his arms once more.

The first swing took out two teeth, the second shattered Joker’s ankle. For once, Jason’s own foot was singing in delight, rather than shrieking in pain. Joker’s scream lasted only for a second though, before it turned back into laughter.

_That fucking, evil laughter..._

He raised the pipe again and again, bringing it down hard each time. Forehand. Backhand. Forehand. Backhand. Forehand. Backhand. He was going to kill the fucking bastard and he was going to make it hurt. And he was going to pick his targets.

“I may not have the time to go looking for pliers...” _Hands._ “... acid...” _Arms._ “... saws...” _Thighs._ “... knives...” _Chest._ “... drills...” _Feet._ “... electricity...” _Stomach._ “... or fire...” _Face_. At last, the smile broke. Jason pushed down the laughter that wanted to swell inside him together with the next incoming comms call, and ditched the pipe. “But I _am_ enjoying this.”

His stance was firm as he drew back his fist and planted it straight in the broken face. Again. And again. And again. It was easier without the pipe. It was also more personal. He could feel the memories crawl back up inside of him, pushing tears to his eyes and a heavy blackness to his mind. He focused it all into his fists, until that was all the world had become. No more comms pings. No more outside noise. No more daycare. No more unconscious thugs. Just his fists and a white face that was not quite broken enough yet, not even now. Time had suddenly become meaningless. He knew he was screaming something, but he doubted it made sense. He wasn’t sure it was even words. Jason screamed and Jason punched and slowly the white was turning red, then white again, as the bones broke and splintered and pierced through the ripped flesh.

And it still wasn’t enough.

 _It will never be enough_ , not-Robin explained gently and softly, like a mother comforting her child. _It will never be enough, because he took more from you than your body. He took fifteen months of your life and all of your trust. And you will never be able to take that from him._

It was not comforting. It was awful. It made him want to retch. Jason swallowed the bile that rose in his throat, lowered his arm and took a step back.

The comms unit of his helmet was still beeping with a fury Jason himself could no longer muster. There was no point in beating up this creature anymore. Not-Robin was right. Even if that had been the real Joker, torturing him would not change anything. It would not reverse what had happened to him.

 _You don’t need to_ , not-Robin argued. _He broke you, but he didn’t destroy you. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. You are stronger now. You don’t need this. You don’t need him. He is no longer the end-all-be-all of your life._

Jason took another step back, closed his eyes, and counted to seven. A little trick Bruce had taught him.

_Bruce..._

Bruce, who probably hated him now, but who had taught him so much. Barbara, who had refused to give up on him, even when he had been at his worst. Dick, the lovable idiot dogtopus, who had killed this Joker for him. Tim, whose patience had been endless. Alfred, who never demanded, only gave.

“I don’t need you.” The words felt bitter on his tongue, but great in his chest. “I don’t need you.” The comms unit beeped again. Jason shook his head and finally opened the emergency frequency to Oracle. “Sorry for the delay. I was busy. What’s up?”

“Riddler has Nightwing and Robin hostage in the old Iceberg Lounge in Arkham City. Ghost is on his way. The entire area is communication-jammed.” Barbara spoke at ninety miles per hour, but every word hit like a pound of bricks. She was panicked. She was desperate. And no fucking wonder. She had tried to contact him for—fucking hell—how long now? “Ghost is there, but he’ll need back-up! Please, Red Hood, I know you don’t want to work with him, but—“

“Call you back in thirty seconds.”

He cut the link quickly and turned back to Joker once more. He supposed the clown was once more trying to turn his hideous face into a smile, although it was hard to tell with the damage.

“Sho... whadsh nexd, hoodie? We blay shome more?”

“No.” He reloaded his right gun and pointed it right between Joker’s eyes. “There are more important things than you.”

The skull cracked loudly as the bullet hit, tearing quickly through flesh and bone. He fired three more rounds just to be sure and double-checked with his helmet. No life signs. It was over. Joker was dead. Jason untied him, stashed away the Batclaw and returned back outside. It was a long way from Robinson Park to the Bowery. Too long to make on foot, given how urgent Barbara’s pleading had sounded. He commandeered the nearest bike and hit the comms switch as soon as he was on the road.

“I’m all yours, BG. Tell me everything.”


	33. A Good Deed Punished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Working together with Ghost is not very high on Red Hood's priority list. Rescuing Nightwing and Robin is though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here... have ALL the onions! (I fully expect people to cry and rage at me after this and I am not sorry.)
> 
> Google search of the day/chapter: bullet-proof glass
> 
> For status updates, writing trivia, fandom/fanfiction/writing related questions and occasional random ramblings, please visit my tumblr: http://lananiscorner.tumblr.com/

_We just have to do this on a Monday morning, don’t we?_ Jason cursed under his breath as he jumped off the bike and straight into a grapple up the walls of Arkham City. It had been a quiet week before, filled with database work and relatively short patrols. Granted, encountering Joker rather than Nigma had been an unwelcome surprise, but even that had ended relatively… ok. He was not going to classify it as ‘well’. Joker was dead now, again, and that was good. Resuscitation could not fix bullets to the brain. That was also good. Still, it was only a matter of time until Bruce would find out and Jason knew what his reaction would be.

Yet here he was, rushing up and over a wall of concrete and barb wire, running across rooftops like the hounds of hell were on his aching heels, at Bruce’s request. He had tried to think of it not as ‘working with Ghost’ but a ‘rescuing Nightwing and Robin’ mission on his way here, but that had not made it any better. In a way it even made it worse. It made him wonder what trap Nigma had laid for the two of them to have gotten his hands on them so quickly and abruptly.

The jamming signal hit him just as he passed the ACE Chem offices and he was grateful that Santa Prisca had taught him hunting without the cowl. The building was still badly damaged. How Nigma had even managed to create a death trap in there without bringing the entire structure down was anybody’s guess for another day. With one last breath of fresh air, Jason grappled to the back entrance of the Iceberg Lounge and made his way down the halls.

It felt strange being back in this place, like walking into the past. The silence weighed down on him as the jogged through battered corridors and past derelict display cases. It had been different when he had last been here, although Jason had to admit it had been a while. Back then, he had been fifteen and the museum, though already under Penguin’s paws, had still been a place of learning and wonder. He had spent hours here, sometimes for his course work, sometimes just for fun. He had drawn the big T-Rex in the front entrance hall at least six times and each time he had found details he had previously overlooked. The one in the cave was a poor imitation.

But the T-Rex was on the other side of the building, the one that was closed off with cement in the doorway and so Jason pushed it out of his mind again. _Focus on what you want to achieve_.

Bruce had definitely been through this way. He could tell from the way the rubble had been moved and from the foot prints in the dust and ash. Judging from the lack of bits and pieces of Ghost all over the halls, Nigma had wanted him alive. That was good. It meant there was a decent chance Nightwing and Robin were still alive, too.

He had barely just walked through the door to the trophy room, barely just begun to look at the ubiquitous lasers and the maze of bullet-proof glass beyond the balcony and at the cells on the other side of the room, when Ghost yelled at him from his left.

“Jump down at one o’clock! Now!”

He wanted to ask why, but Ghost was already aiming for eleven o’clock. Given the identical layout of the room, there probably was a good point. Jason took three wide steps and vaulted over the railing.

The pressure plate beneath him started glowing green the moment he touched it and sunk under his weight with a slow, dreading finality that did not bode well. He could hear some mechanism click underneath his feet, then a little further in the distance. Finally, the green glow that he had tuned out before disappeared from above the doorway. For a moment, the room was quiet enough for him to hear a pin drop. Then, Dick sighed loudly from the other side of the room.

“Thank God! Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Red!”

“I’m neither one nor the other,” Jason lobbed back. “Exactly how hard on the head did Nigma hit you?”

“It wasn’t Riddler,” Tim answered calmly from the cell he was confined two. _His_ prison Jason could actually see.

 _Ten by ten feet. Concrete on three sides, with a vent about three feet by a half set high on the outer wall. Glass front._ Sloppy, although Robin wasn’t wearing his utility belt and even though Jason could not see Nightwing in the cell to the left, he was sure he wasn’t carrying either. There was a gap less than an inch high across the entire front at the very top of the glass. That explained how he could still hear them.

“Well, look who decided to come running to the big bad Ghosts’s aid…” The voice that swept down from the speakers somewhere in the room was definitely female. Nina Damfino. Or Deidre Vance. Echo or Query. Jason wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. “Don’t think that outsmarting this first trap, this initial stepping stone towards your untimely demise is going to save you in the long run.”

“’First trap’?” He accompanied the question with appropriate air quotes in Bruce’s direction. “You honestly telling me you’re setting me up not even half a minute into this?”

“You are breaking the rules,” the second voice interrupted. “Not to mention you should be dead!”

“Yeah, I’ve been getting that a lot over the last year and a half,” Jason sneered towards the ceiling. There was definitely more than one speaker for audio output. Too bad. “Skip the rules crap and just tell us what happens if we don’t get through this maze in time.” The silence was unreal. Bruce glared at him from his left with open contempt. He had seen that stare often enough during his time as Robin. It usually meant ‘did you have to?’

“What?” Jason shrugged. Those things always have timers, don’t they? I mean, you’d have to be pretty stupid not to input one and—“

It was the sound of splashing water that broke his rant. Robin cursed softly as he jumped back from the wall with the vent. Jason frowned.

“Acid?”

“No, water, but it’s freaking cold!”

“Exactly one degree Celsius,” the first voice sing-songed in amusement. “That’s thirty-three point eight degrees Fahrenheit for you metrically impaired knuckleheads. The entire cell will take exactly ten minutes to fill, although chances are the cold will get to your poor little, featherless, caged birds long before that. Good luck.”

Jason shrugged. “See. That’s what I said. Timer.”

“This is not funny, Red Hood,” Ghost growled. “We have to assume the entire winding path to the end of this maze is rigged.”

“If it even leads to the end,” Jason replied. “It’s entirely possible that this entire thing is going in a circle.” He tried to make out the path set by the transparent dividers, but the fact that it was glass did not make it easier. Jason cursed. “You should have let me get a look at the layout before dragging me down here.”

“The pressure plates were on a timer,” Ghost explained calmly as he touched the edge of his cape to the glass. It sent a spark of electricity up from the pressure plate that was absorbed by the soles of his boots. “This looks like aluminium oxynitride with a transparent sensor mesh. Touch the glass—“

“And bad things happen.” Jason nodded at Robin. “I trust you guys have tried hitting that glass real hard?”

“Didn’t budge,” Robin shook his head. “I would have used explosive gel, but after they tranqued us our belts were gone. Probably still in our stakeout position. They do emit fifty thousands volts if touched for too long by unauthorized personnel.”

“The Riddler will find a way to circumvent that,” one of the voices said confidently. “He always finds a way.”

“Yeah? Well so do I, lady.”

Jason moved forward slowly, one foot a time, one toe after the next. The plates the floor had been laid out with – _plates, not tiles_ , Jason reminded himself with every step – were rigged. The first one crumbled under his feet to reveal a small pool of acid, the second triggered a spike trap that nearly gored his calves. Judging from the sounds on the other side, Ghost was having the same issues.

He was ten plates in when he reached a wider cube of three-by-three plates. New glass panels shot up to close off each of the four exits and Jason crossed his arms in annoyance.

“Waiting on you now, Ghost.”

At least he thought so. He tested the nine plates carefully and found no more pressure switches. There were no obvious clues on how to proceed, although now that he had a look at the side corridors of the museum, he could see that the one on the right had been sealed shut with concrete as well. There was only one way into this place. And potentially no way out. In the cell on the far side of the room, the water had risen high enough to reach Robin’s knees. Jason did a quick count and came up to a remaining fifty-six plates.

“How are you holding up, birdie? Freezing yet?”

“A bit nippy,” Robin lobbed back at him. “How are you doing? We heard they set a trap for you, too. Joker’s goons.”

“Not just his goons.” He tried to catch a glimpse of Ghost, but the jammers in the center of the room blocked his line of sight. _Military grade equipment, old, battered, broken once and fixed again, but still in decent working order, apparently._ “Joker himself.”

“What?” The alarm bells were ringing in Dick’s head. Jason could hear it even if he didn’t have a clear line of sight yet. Jason frowned.

“Yeah, he was pretty spry for a guy who just got out of a hospital after being beaten to death a few weeks ago. Don’t know what they gave him. Experimental drugs? Lazarus juice?”

“The Lazarus pits have all been shut down long ago,” Bruce yelled from across the room and the high-pitched hiss underneath the words told Jason that he had just run into the last plate before the cube – pressurized nerve gas – which had thankfully done absolutely nothing thanks to the hood’s filters. Judging from the slight distortion in his voice, Bruce still had his rebreathers. “I will investigate his sudden recovery when we’re done here.”

“Don’t bother.” Jason braced himself. This was it. The sooner the cat was out of the bag, the better. “I killed him. Like permanently. Like ‘four bullets between the eyes’ kind of permanent. He ain’t coming back from that.”

Somewhere in the room, Jason could have sworn a cricket was chirping happily. He could only imagine the look of disappointment on Ghost’s face, as well as the look of horror on Dick’s. Robin was having none of it.

“Good riddance. I don’t blame you.”

“Robin—“

“Zip it, Ghost!” It couldn’t have been a pleasant gesture, what with the almost freezing water rising slowly inch by inch, yet Robin planted himself in the center of his cell like a tree and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Just a few minutes ago you were perfectly happy to let me die to save Nightwing. And don’t get me wrong – if it comes down to the choice between him and me, I’d pick him any day – but you don’t get to wield some high-and-mighty morality cards here, okay?”

“You did what?” Jason wanted to take Bruce and fold him up like an accordion. “Nightwing, tell me he’s joking.”

“He’s not.” Dick’s voice was dripping contempt. “How could you, Ghost? I told you to save Robin! And you know why!”

“One, I wasn’t ‘happy’ to make any choice.” A short swish sounded and Jason knew Ghost was in a square of his own as well. “Two, I knew Red Hood was on the way. I knew he would get here in time. It was a meaningless choice. Three, I am not going to let any of you three die.”

“What a noble sentiment...” The voice slithered from the ceiling with a metallic tinge. “I suggest you solve this puzzle quickly, then. One third of your time is already up. Oh, but do be careful, though! One wrong step and the laser grid above your heads will turn you into finely grated cubes of vigilante! Now, step into the center square and riddle me this: which tusk grew from the knowledge of Greece and India? You can count on him to lead the way.”

“Wow.” Jason wanted to laugh. “A riddle that’s actually a _riddle_. Man, Eddie should have hired you girls sooner.”

“Red Hood—“

“Yes, yes, I know.” He shook his head. “Focus on the case. People in danger. I get it.” He looked around carefully. It was unlikely that making them stand in the center had been an arbitrary choice. “I’m thinking combination lock. We step on the wrong plates or in the wrong order and it blows off our feet.”

“Or ours,” Dick shouted from his cell. “They’ve got explosive charges underneath our cells.”

“Oh good,” Jason rolled his eyes. “Just think warm thoughts of explosions then. Should keep the numbness from the freezing water at bay for a while.”

Ghost had growled something in reply, but Jason hadn’t heard it. He was too busy looking around the square trying to uncover the sequence. _Something with numbers. Something that dates back to ancient India and Greece._ The tusk didn’t make any sense.

 _Think homophones, Jason_ , not-Robin suggested in the back of his head.

_Tusk. Dusk. Task. Tusc._

“Tusc!” He counted the squares again. Eight squares left. “Tusc as in ‘Tuscan’. A Tuscan mathematician who appropriated a concept from ancient India and Greece.”

“Fibonacci.” Bruce answered the same time Jason finished. _The Fibonacci sequence_. It made sense. An integer sequence, in which every number was the sum of the two preceding ones. _One, one, two, three, five, eight._

“So which plate do we start with?” That was the real question. Jason looked around, but there was no obvious clue.

“The same place you’d start drawing if you were to write a square question mark,” Bruce answered. “Center left.”

“If I get my feet blown off, I’ll blame you for every remaining second of my miserable life,” Jason shouted across the distance. Then, he set his left foot on the plate to his left.

A soft click sounded, but after ten seconds, nothing else had happened. Jason let out a relieved sigh. One down. Five to go. He put his right foot onto the square as well, resting his weight until the plate had sunken all the way down and clicked once more, then stepped onto the top left and top center squares in quick succession, before jumping to the center right.

“I swear this is the worst game of hopscotch, ever.”

He looked across the board to the last plate. Bottom left. Six feet. It would have been an easy jump with two healthy feet. With one though, with freshly healed bones, and no time to gain momentum? _Yeah, this is gonna suck_. Jason took a deep breath and jumped.

He landed on his right foot and forced every muscle in his leg to freeze as he landed. His leg protested, but the plate obeyed. Slowly, the metal sank into the ground and so did the glass walls on the side. There were now three hallways to choose from and he mustered each carefully as he redistributed the pressure onto both of his feet. Ghost seemed to have read his mind.

“Take the path on the outside. I studied the layout before you got here. It’s the only one that doesn’t lead to a dead end.”

“The middle one leads outside the maze,” Jason argued, but Bruce was undeterred.

“It also leads to a grid of lasers. You can’t get out that way.”

“I don’t need to get out to free Robin.”

And freeing Robin was the priority. Jason ignored Bruce’s angry shouting as he set out on the middle path. The pressure plates here were even more sensitive than the first round and after nearly getting his feet blow off on a well-placed mine, Jason resolved to sacrifice a flashbang and his Batclaw to trigger the mechanisms prematurely. It wouldn’t matter. He could make more of those. He had spares. The same could not be said for Robin.

Tim was now more than half submerged in his cell, and even though the suit was insulated, Jason knew he could feel it. There was a good chance the water had already run along the inside of his boots and down to his feet and was cooling him down quickly from his toes upwards. He needed to move fast.

The last trap was a jet of acid and Jason cursed as part of the spray hit his right glove. He shrugged off the outer layer and immediately felt the cold of the museum creep along the thinner gloves he wore underneath. How this place managed to be so cold in spite of the weather continuously getting warmer was beyond him, but at least he was on the last plate now, in front of the laser grid. So close to freedom and yet so far...

“Red Hood, I’m in the next square. Get back onto the trail.”

“Stay where you are, Ghost.” He combined his guns into their sniper rifle configuration and searched his pockets for the right ammo. This required extra finesse. “I’ve got it covered. Robin! Get ready for a package.”

The shot was tricky. He didn’t have much room to maneuver, certainly not enough to kneel while taking aim. Standing would make the shot less steady, with a target no wider than an inch no less, but he had to try. Jason loaded the first round, aimed carefully, and fired.

The bullet stuck further to the right than he had wanted to, but it had stuck. That was important. It was now wedged between the top of the cell and the ALON panel. _Good._ On the other side of the glass, Robin waited patiently, if shivering.

“Robin, check that bullet. See if it’s damaged. If you can see any tears, and I really mean _any_ , back off and I’ll fire another. If not, move it to twenty-five inches from the side wall. When you’re done, I’ll fire one for the other side.”

He watched quietly as Robin did as he was told. From the speakers, one of the voices laughed in amusement at his ‘feeble’ attempts, yet Jason drowned it out. This was going to work. If Eddie thought he could use military-grade bullet-proof glass to trick him, he had bet on the wrong horse. Not with Red Hood.

“Done. Fire away.”

He waited until Robin had stepped back and then fired the second round. This time, it had gotten stuck in the right place.

“Why the twenty-five inches?”

“That’s how wide a single panel you can manufacture with ALON,” Jason replied as he disassembled his rifle and reached for the detonator. “Anything larger than that and you have to tile it. And tiles use grout.”

“And grout is a structural weakness, got it.” Robin approached the glass slowly and looked at him. His face was pale. His lips were starting to take on a bluish hue, but there was no shiver in his voice. “Anything else you need me to do?”

“Step as far the fuck away as you possibly can and go for a dive,” Jason answered non-chalantly. “Unless you want some really nasty acid on your face.”

Robin didn’t need to be told twice. Jason waited until he had submerged himself, then pressed the trigger.

The shells broke apart with a quiet hiss, unleashing their contents onto the transparent aluminum below. The acid reacted quickly with the air, then started eating through the panel seams just as fast. It lost its potency the further it went below the water level, but it was enough. Halfway through, the middle panels broke off. Under the hood, Jason smiled.

Robin had seen it, too, probably felt it as well as the water rushed out of the newly formed hole. He crawled out of the cell, careful of the remaining glass edges and shook off what he could, then took off his boots one after the other and poured out the excess water.

“Thanks, Red Hood. Nightwing,” Tim rushed over to the other cell. From the angle he was at, Jason could not see Dick except for his hand against the glass, but Robin looked worried. “Hang in there, okay! I’m getting you out.”

“I’m out of specialty ammo,” Jason admitted, “but it shouldn’t be a problem. The seams should be just as vulnerable to explosives as they are to acid.” Over his head, the confused babbling had turned into furious rambling. Jason tuned it out, together with the thought of a severely hypothermic Nightwing. “Ghost, you still carry explosive gel, right? Toss some to Robin. Robin, get Nightwing out, then smash those jammers. If we can disable those, maybe neither Ghost nor I will have to move an inch from where we are.”

For once, Ghost did not argue, and that in and of itself told Jason how bad the situation was on the other side of the room. The explosive gel gun landed on the floor with a harsh thud and Robin picked it up quickly. He marked the window along the entire length of the seams, then stepped back and pushed the trigger.

The second cell opened up even better than the first, spewing out several cubic feet of ice cold water and Nightwing, coughing and spluttering as he tried to shake off the cold liquid. A second later, he was on his feet, moving to the inner edge of the maze and planting his fist firmly into the jammers. Jason rolled his eyes. Crude, but effective. The military mind inside him wanted to weep at the loss of good equipment, but was quickly replaced with new alertness as the sensors in his cowl started coughing up feedback again.

While Robin and Nightwing were checking on each other, while Ghost was busy hacking the security and the voice over the speakers descended into unintelligible, Red Hood opened the shared comms link.

“Red Hood to Oracle and Penny-One, Nightwing and Robin are both safe. I repeat, both birds are safe.”

“Oh thank god!” A hint of relieved laughter swung underneath Barbara’s voice and pushed it up half an octave, where it stayed and switched into her old team mom mode. “What about you? And Ghost?”

Jason took a long look around. The lasers were starting to come down, although the ones in front of his face were still up.

“Ghost is dismantling the security system right now. Should be out of here in a few minutes.”

“Are any of you hurt?”

“Not too badly,” Jason admitted to his own surprise. He had expected more, but perhaps Nigma had taken his disastrous defeat at the puppy mill worse than Jason had suspected. It would certainly explain why he had not even bothered to provide his own commentary. In front of the cells, Nightwing and Robin were hugging each other, probably just as much for comfort as for warmth, and Jason felt a strange pinch in his gut. Guilt? Jealousy? He wasn’t entirely sure, but it didn’t really matter. “Nightwing and Robin will need hypothermia treatment. I hope you have some of those Drake Industry heat pads le—“

He saw her just as the lasers in front of his little square went down, stepping out of a secret door next to the front entrance. It hadn’t been there the last time he had seen the museum, that much was for sure. He reached for his Batclaw, only to remember that he had trashed it in one of the traps, and chose his grappling gun instead. It connected with her purple belt, and he pulled sharply to get her right off the railing onto the ground in front of the cells. Nightwing and Robin were in battle stances in a second, but Jason couldn’t have cared less. He shot the gun out of her hand, then crossed the distance in quick strides.

“You’re not going anywhere, you fucking harpy!” He evaded the grip Dick tried to get on him and pointed the gun straight at the woman’s face as he approached. Up close, the could see the top of the jaguar tattoo on her right shoulder, rather than the left, and the black of her eyes, rather than blue. _Nina Damfino_. “You know, say what you want about Eddie, but he wasn’t usually dumb enough to show up _in person_.”

“Red Hood, please. Stop.” Tim was approaching him slowly from the side, like some patient handler approaching a spooked animal. Jason wanted to smack him over the head just for the implication. Then again, it was infinitely better than the disapproving look on Bruce’s face as he rushed over quickly, only to be caught by Nightwing. “She’s not worth it, Red.”

“Did she hit you over the head when she caught you, Robin?” Jason sneered and flicked off the safety. “Because correct me if I’m wrong, but this is the same hag that put you under Hatter’s mind control last year, broke Nigma out of jail, killed more than a dozen people in what were probably test runs for this death maze, set me up to get killed by Joker, and nearly killed you today! Give me one good reason why I should let her live.”

“Because it’s the right thing to do?” Tim shrugged. “Because she wasn’t always a murderous monster. Because sometimes people lose their way and do truly awful things, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t anything worth saving in them.”

 _Because you murdered people in cold blood as well and yet we let you live, so who are you to complain?_ He wasn’t saying it, of course, but Jason knew he was thinking it. Slowly, Tim’s fingertips slid over Red Hood’s extended forearm.

“Put down the gun, Red. She is not Joker. Nobody else is going to die tonight. You are better than that.”

He wanted to shoot her. Part of him really did, and yet, he felt his fingers move, almost in trance, putting the safety back on and turning the gun in his hand so he was gripping it by the barrel. With a deep breath, Red Hood closed his eyes, then looked at the woman cowering in front of him once more.

“From this day forward, your every breath is a gift from Robin.”

He moved the instant Tim and Dick had relaxed, raising his hand and bringing the butt of the gun down hard against her temple to knock her out. There was a good chance Bruce had a few choice words to him for that. Probably Dick and Tim, too, judging from the way Dick approached him, but he wasn’t in the mood to wait around. Jason holstered the gun once more, then grabbed his grappling hook and returned the way he had come. “Fuck off, all of you.”

He had come to Arkham City to save Nightwing and Robin. His job here was done.

***

 _I did the right thing_. Jason kept on staring at the mirror, pointedly ignoring the buzzing phone, as he combed out his wet hair and shrugged into his shirt and Kevlar vest. The small streak of white looked just as out of place on his head as the last patches of snow on the streets outside. He contemplated picking the winter jacket, but ultimately decided against it.

The weather had been getting better for almost two weeks now. By Thursday, spring had come to Gotham. There was no more ice, only rain, and the last few remnants of snow were starting to boil down to a brownish-gray sludge. Normally, it would have been a good time for patrolling, since the warmer temperatures brought more people out onto the street and with them the rats and vultures that prayed on them. It was not a normal week though.

He swiped away the missed message just before grappling out the window. _Dick again._ Part of him wanted to read it, just like the other daily messages Nightwing had sent. He probably should. The rest of him shuddered to think what they would be about. Dick was not in any trouble, Jason knew that much. Nightwing had been busy in Blüdhaven. His trackers were normal throughout every night, no signs of distress. So whatever Dick had to say to him probably concerned either Joker or Riddler and that meant it had to wait until both had been taken care of.

He started patrol at Mercy Bridge, as usual, brought up the tactical map on his visor and chose his next target. _Torrential rain and heavy winds? Yeah, perfect day to visit the Narrows._

As hideouts went, this one was actually well-hidden. Jason slipped in through a narrow window that had been carelessly left unlocked on the far side of the warehouse and made his way into the center of the room, perched on the support beams above the lights. He counted sixteen thugs, five armed plus an unarmed hostage in the room with the safe. At least he assumed it was a hostage. There were only so many reasons why people ended up chained to chairs. Jason removed the pin from the flashbang grenade and dropped it right into the center of the room.

The first three seconds were fully disoriented panic and Jason used that to his advantage. He ignored the thugs in the center, who had taken the brunt of the attack, and started working his way inward from the outside instead. A few of them tried to stab or hit him. One called out for help. One was smart enough to try to run. In the end, it didn’t matter. By the time the smoke lifted, half the group was down.

He went for the guns next, grabbing each one and dismantling it, while dodging swings and kicks. It meant more work for his legs, but less trouble in the long run. Another reason why he had swapped out normal patrol for a more targeted hunt.

With the last gun out of play, only three clowns were left. He let them come close, then used the momentum from the one to his left to flip their positions, creating a human shield. Two kicks later, the remaining two were down as well. Jason took a moment to take a deep breath, then got out the zip-ties and set to work, while counting crates. He came up to fourteen chemical containers and three crates full of money. The best haul so far.

The hostage was squirming in his chair when Jason finally got around to entering the safe room. His heart-rate was off the charts. Now, up close, Jason could see why. His hair was green, his mask white with a red smile.

“So... you’re not a hostage then,” Jason mused as he checked out the contents of the shelves next to the safe. Most of it was money. Some of it was jewels and gold. It didn’t make any sense. _Why keep stuff like this on the shelves and not in the safe?_ “You’re the unlucky bastard who drew the short straw and gets experimented on?”

The first thing that caught his attention was a strange sound coming from his behind him, like wet earth sliding through a clenched fist. The second was his helmet. He tried to scan the serial number on one of the gold bars on the shelf, but his signals were jammed.

_Fuck._

He whirled around just in time to catch the arm that was coming down for a strike, needle sharp in hand. He grabbed him by the wrist, only to watch the white-gloved hand stretch and deform beyond any human capability. It jammed the needle straight through his jacket and shirt and into his arm. As the sedative took hold and dragged his mind into the darkness, Jason could see the man remove his mask.

There was white underneath the white. Red underneath the red. The bloody lips curved into a wicked smile and the voice of his nightmares crawled under his skin, just as oblivion took him.

“Miss me, Hoodie?”

***

It was like floating. Floating on a sea of foam, _in_ a sea of foam, with no sense of where left and right, up and down was.  He wanted to move, but he could barely feel his fingers, much less his toes. It was like his entire body wasn’t there.

Until it suddenly was.

He came back to full consciousness to the feeling of falling out of the fifth floor and onto the hard pavement. Everything hurt. Everything was broken. Or at least it seemed like it. Jason cursed under his breath and tried to ignore the slight slur in his speech. Whatever they had injected him with – it had been good stuff. He had no idea how long he had been out. Might have been an hour. Might have been a day. With no way to know, Jason started his ten-point check.

His ankles were still there and he could move them just fine. His toes tingled with the remains of the sedative, but that would wear off. His knees... his knees bumped _something_ as he tried to bend them. It sounded like wood. His hips seemed to be ok. His belt was still there. His gadgets, too. That was a relief. He tried to bend his waist only to send his helmet knocking against the wooden thing again. Something dripped... crumbled onto this chest.

_Am I... stuck underneath a pile of rubble or something?_

He tried his fingers, wrists, elbows and shoulders next. Everything worked. More tingling in his fingertips. That only left his neck and eyes. He rolled his head from left to right slowly and was pleased to find that nothing hurt. Then came the eyes. And the shock.

It was pitch black. Jason brought up his hand slowly to switch on the tactical vision mode of his helmet, only to be greeted by useless static. _Jammers. Lovely._ He turned it off again and opened his helmet. It was still pitch black.

He could feel the sharp stab of the onset of panic almost immediately and searched his jacket for his flash light and lighter, only to come up empty for both. And his knives. And his gadgets. Somehow, he was starting to get the dreading feeling that the only reason he still had his helmet was because the thing was set to shock anyone trying to remove it by force, and blow up if necessary.

 _Focus, Jason_ , not-Robin murmured calmly in the back of his head. _First priority: where the hell are we?_

“Somewhere really fucking dark and really fucking cramped,” Jason muttered as he tested the lower end of his confines with his feet. He couldn’t move by much. Every direction he tried to shift, he was knocking against more hard surfaces, wood, judging from the hollow sound. His arms were no better and it took him all of ten seconds to realize that the widest point of his confines was barely wide enough to accommodated his shoulders. It narrowed towards his feet. The top, whatever it was, was little more than an inch over his chest. When he bumped it lightly with his fist, more crumbs trickled onto his chest. He gripped some of them between his fingers and rubbed carefully. Grainy. Slightly wet. It didn’t smell of anything. Jason steeled himself and gave the crumbs a short lick.

Dirt. Earthy, fresh out of the ground, dirt. On top of him. On top of this box. A box in the dirt.

“Fuck!” The sharp stab of panic started turning into a twisting knife. The fucker had buried him in a fucking pine box. “Oh shit.”

He started feeling around the upped edges where the walls connected to the cover and came up with no less than six trip wires, and that was only what he could reach with his hands. There was no fucking way to know just how many more there were near his knees, let alone what they were connected to. Motion sensor? Smilex tank? Acid bath? Bomb? Trial and error would not cut it.   He tried the comms unit next, but all he got was noisy static. The trackers in his waistband, helmet, and jacket collar hummed away quietly and utterly without use.

“Fuck me.”

Part of him wanted to laugh. Part of him wanted to cry. Was this the universe’s understanding of irony? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair. The first time, yes. The first time he had made errors. He had gone looking for a monster and he had turned off his trackers and comms so no one could find him. He had gotten both of his wishes in the most literal and horrifying way possible. But this time?

Jason ran his hands up through the streak of white and down along the scar. He had done everything right this time. He had not gone looking for Joker, because Joker was fucking dead. Or he was supposed to be. Were there more of him? How many? He didn’t really want the answer, but he would have been happy to have at least one fucking bit of clarity in this jammer-fucked mess. How was that bastard still alive? Just fucking how? And he hadn’t even gone looking for him... his men, but not him. He had the trackers on, all three of them, and his comms, but they were utterly useless. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

He had done everything right and he was still going to die.

 _You’re not going to die_ , not-Robin whispered in the depths of his mind. _They’ll find you_.

“How?” He wanted to believe it. He really did. “The tracker is jammed, so are the fucking comms.” Jason swallowed hard to get rid of the edge of tears that was starting to creep underneath his voice. He was not going to give the fucking psycho clown that satisfaction. He had done it once. He would never do it again. “I’m going to die down here.”

 _And the last thing I’ll ever have said to any of them will have been ‘fuck off, all of you’_ , Jason realized with a sudden, grinding punch of guilt and regret. _The last thing I’ll ever have said to anyone._

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t how he had wanted to end it back then. It certainly wasn’t how he wanted to end it now, but in the end, it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. All the years of suffering. All the years of training. All the things he had done, the horrible and the good. All the progress he had made. All the progress he had not. It didn’t matter. What point was there in trying to keep up the brave façade? To stave off the tears? He was going to die alone and terrified and the last thing he had done was burning bridges. That was worth crying over.

 _The point is that you may fail if you try_ , Bruce’s voice echoed in the back of his skull, a long-forgotten memory that had somehow decided that ‘right now’ was a fucking perfect moment to haunt him again. _But you will never succeed if you don’t. You will never have a chance, if you refuse to give yourself any._

“Fucking Bruce...” He wished he had punched him. He wished he had punched him and yelled at him and called him out on the crap he had pulled. He also wished he had hugged him and held him and thanked him for giving him a chance all those years ago.

 _There’s this really cool breathing technique my escrima teacher taught me a couple of months ago_ , His memory of Barbara chimed in against the tears. He wished he had apologized to her for always being off comms. He wished he had taken the fucking opportunity to invite her to sushi for putting up with him all winter. _You keep your breath really low and slow and you’ll barely consume any oxygen_.

 _Is that any way to leave your home and family, Master Todd_ , Alfred inquired softly. He wished he had said goodbye to Alfred. He wished he wouldn’t have to say it in the first place.

 _You can be so much better than that, and you know it_ , Tim agreed. He wished he had given Tim more credit for everything he’d done for him. He wished he had thanked him all the crap he had put himself through in Jason’s defense.

 _You don’t have to pretend that everything is alright when it’s not, but you are in pretty bad shape right now, so please just let us help you. Okay?_ Dick still sounded worried and slightly clingy, even now, in the echo beneath his skull, but Jason couldn’t muster the contempt he’d usually have had for that. He wished he hadn’t always been so distant. He wished he had accepted more of his help. He wished he had answered the damn text message.

Jason swallowed hard and the salt stung against his cracked lips. Then, he started counting to seven and forced his breathing to be as slow and shallow as he could. Judging from the size of his confinements... Worst case scenario, he would have about five hours to live, before succumbing to sheer instinct and digging his way out to die a painful death by whatever trap Joker had wired onto this fucking coffin. For now, he had five hours.

Five hours of regret and wishful thinking.


	34. Roots And Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason's time is running out. Once again, Bruce finds himself racing to save his son... with no idea where to look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter. This FUCKING chapter. I've been waiting to write this since chapter 15. I hope you are all happy now.
> 
> Google search of the day: oxygen inside a coffin  
> (NSA loves me)
> 
> For status updates, writing trivia, fandom/fanfiction/writing related questions and occasional random ramblings, please visit my tumblr: http://lananiscorner.tumblr.com/

Something was wrong. Bruce could feel it in his bones, long before the message, a dull, winding ache that started in his skull and stretched all the way to his toes. It was like the change in air pressure just before the storm rolled in, like the moment just before a high-speed elevator shoots up into the sky. He felt weightless and heavy at once. He felt uncomfortable. He felt dread.

Dick was the first one he contacted. Bruce knew Jason’s sudden departure from the museum and the harsh words that had accompanied it had hit him hard. He knew having beaten Joker to death still gnawed on him, although whether that was because of shame or misguided pride, Bruce did not know. What he did know was that Dick had been trying to contact Jason for the last three days and unsuccessfully so. Bruce prayed he hadn’t done anything reckless.

“I’m fine, Ghost,” Dick muttered through the comms, his voice just slightly nasally. A light cold, courtesy of a cell full of ice cold water. “If you really wanna ease your guilty conscience, call Robin.”

Dick hung up without another sound and Bruce sighed. He doubted Dick would ever stop being bitter about him for his choice. A few clicks later, the sounds of heavy thuds came through Robin’s comms line. The fight lasted less than a minute, and by the time Tim was answering, his voice was perfectly calm and level.

“Ghost. I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.”

“Just a comms check—“

“Liar.” Bruce wanted to frown and smile at the same time. Tim had never been so direct and abrupt. Clearly Jason’s attitude had rubbed off on him, just a little. “Look, I can deal with your deeply buried trauma, your paranoia, and your OCD. Been there, done that, with Red. But don’t lie to me. What’s up?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce admitted honestly. He was getting tired of lying. Perhaps he really was getting old. Perhaps Alfred’s disappointed stares were finally working. “But keep your eyes open. I have a feeling this night is going to get a lot worse.”

“Ghost...” Tim sounded almost as if he was reprimanding a small child. “The night has been really quiet so far. It would be hard for it not to get worse.”

***

It got worse at precisely 11.54 pm.

Despite the heavy rain, the bat signal was easy to see in the sky, directing his attention to GCPD headquarters. The thought that he could not go there himself, that the symbol he had once established together with Gordon no longer called for him, still stung, but it could not be changed. Ghost took his perch on Mercy Bridge, then waited for Robin to come in. The conversation with Cash did not take long, but by the time Tim headed for the Clocktower, his voice was harsh and unforgiving as stone.

“Urgent message from the Joker, ‘for bat ears only’,” Tim scoffed as he grappled up to the roof of the tower, entered the security codes, and slid down the chute. Bruce kept his distance. He knew he was not yet welcome in the Clock Tower again. “And what do you know – it’s a VHS tape. I swear this is giving me all the wrong kinds of flashbacks.”

“You checked for explosives?”

“And trackers, chemical traces, and prints,” Tim replied to the sound of Barbara moving about to play back the tape. “It’s about as clean as anything from that bastard could be.”

“Yeah, well, except that he is dead, of course. Ghost, Nightwing, Penny-One...” The joint priority line opened with a short burst of static. Dick’s greeting was brief but courteous and so was Alfred’s. Barb did not bat an eye. “We got a message, presumably from Joker. Putting it on joint video now.”

 _Don’t let it be Jason tied to a chair_ , Bruce begged in his mind. _Don’t let it be Jason tied to a chair again, please._

“Hello, tragic heroes behind the comedic costumes!” Joker’s face filled the screen almost instantly and Bruce flinched hard. Jason was many things, but not a liar. He had said he had killed Joker. So why was the Clown alive and grinning? “I know you did probably not expect to see me again, but, oh, I do love a good plot twist, don’t you, batsies?”

“A good plot twist would be if he was dead in a ditch,” Barb muttered quickly under her breath, but Joker’s tirade continued.

“Well, I must admit this time life wrote the plot. I had to improvise! And it’s all thanks to your boisterous pal, Red Hoodie! I used to wear that suit, you know, but I did it with more style... more ‘evil, mysterious count of blood’, less ‘biker fetishist’, but that’s what happens with lousy remakes.”

“Just get to the point, you freaking basket case,” Dick growled through the comms.

“But that’s not the point of this message, is it?” Bruce raised an eyebrow at Joker’s sheepish smile. He didn’t have Nightwing’s visuals, but he could just picture the indignation and anger on Dick’s face right now. “The point,” Joker continued gleefully, “is that Red Hood is old news. Old, old, old! I haven’t used that alias in years! Nobody should have to watch that tripe anymore, and so I’ve decided to do Gotham and its criminal element a favor and seal the evil little impostor away! But don’t worry: he’ll have an hour or two to repent his sins before he joins the costumed freak show in the sky. You are all welcome.”

The video cut out to an old fashioned TV test pattern on a field of black and white dots. Bruce could hear Barbara typing in the background, fast-forwarding the footage, but the remaining hour and twenty-five minutes were nothing but useless static.

“I’m gonna say what everyone’s thinking,” Dick finally muttered, his voice seething with barely repressed rage. “How is this fucking bastard still alive?!”

“Does it matter?” Barbara was still typing. “I’ve been trying to reach Red Hood ever since the bat signal came online and I can’t get a hold of him. His tracker has vanished off the earth!”

“Not his fault,” Robin insisted. “Remember Christmas? He knows that going off comms is a horrible idea. He wouldn’t do this again.”

“I agree.” For a moment, time seemed to have stopped. Bruce knew they had not expected cooperation from him, but that discussion would have to wait for a later time. “Ja—Red Hood does not make the same mistake twice and he does not lie. He said he killed Joker. We can assume he did. How Joker survived or whether that’s an impostor is irrelevant right now. We can’t receive Red Hood’s signals. That either means he turned them off, or they are jammed. Our priority is to find Red Hood. Preferably within the next sixty minutes. Joker is a notorious liar, but we can’t rely on that to save him.”

No one argued. That in and of itself told Bruce just how serious the situation was. Eventually, it was Alfred who interrupted the silence.

“Gotham is a very big place, sir. Where do you suggest we start?”

“Everywhere.” Bruce brought up the relevant case files on the holo screen implemented into his gauntlet and skimmed them quickly. “Oracle, go over the video again.”

“Let’s hope it contains a clue, this time,” Barbara muttered under her breath as she resumed typing. Bruce winced at the idea of what was going through her mind right now: the many hours they had all spent going over the other video, four and a half years ago, in a desperate attempt to find Jason’s body at least.

“Nightwing, I am forwarding you a GCPD file for a mass shooting that took place near Robinson Park on Monday morning, just before Red Hood came to Arkham City. Multiple injured members of the Joker gang, but no body, despite the anonymous caller claiming Joker was dead. Take the place apart and find what GCPD missed.”

“I’ll go over it with a tooth brush if I have to,” Dick shouted through the comms over the sound of his bike racing along the busy streets of Blüdhaven. Bruce took comfort in the fact that Dick would be at the scene soon. Hopefully, the place had not yet been scrubbed clean.

“Robin, I assume you have logs on Red Hood’s tracker data. Head for his last known coordinates. Find out what happened.

“On my way. Where are you going?”

“Church,” Bruce answered tersely. “My first proper fight with Joker was in a church, he used one as a base in Arkham City, his last high profile victim was thrown out a church window, and he said Red Hood would have a chance to ‘repent’. It can’t be coincidence. I’ll start with abandoned churches on the mainland and work my way east from there.”

_And while I’m there, I’m going to pray that we will find him this time._

***

_Another dud._

Bruce stalked out of the abandoned, crumbling building in quick strides. He waited until he had fully passed the borders of the church yard, then planted his fist in the nearest object. The tempered carbon fiber knuckles left a distinct imprint on the clothes donation bin, but he couldn’t have cared less.

_Another dud. Another ten minutes wasted._

He had set his cowl to ping him once every ten minutes and twice every hour. Now, twenty-six pings later, it made him want to rip the damn mask off his face.

Nightwing had reported in first. The crime scene near Robinson Park had been cleaned up already, but like everything in the park, it had been a rush job. Dick had been able to retrace every single fallen body, every unconscious thug, but there had been no sign of a dead Joker. None. At all. No huge splatter of blood, as would be expected from four high-powered bullets to the face, no left-over brain matter. No bits and pieces of bone. It had been a dead end and it had left Dick fuming until Bruce gave him half his list of possible churches. Gotham had too many of them. Still, the surprise at the sudden cooperative gesture had been clear in Dick’s voice. Bruce had pushed it away together with the call.

Barbara had called in next, if only to inform him that she could glean nothing new from the video. The test pattern at its end had last been used by Gotham City Television in the year 1989, but that was the only peculiar thing about it. Joker’s voice was a perfect match for the real voice sample they had on file. There was no trace of modulation. More importantly, there was no trace of Jason.

Robin had been last, but his search had been equally fruitless. Jason’s last life sign had come from a warehouse in the Narrows, almost five hours ago. There had been evidence of a large fight – broken shelves, bullet holes in the walls, blood on the floor, empty casings – but no bodies. No hint. The crime scene had never even been reported to GCPD, which meant that someone must have overwhelmed Red Hood before the fight had been over. Bruce had been about to tell him to go over the scene again, when Tim had volunteered to do so himself. It had been almost forty minutes ago.

“Jason...” He grappled up to the highest point nearby – one of the GCTV radio towers – and surveyed his surroundings. Gotham was quiet tonight. A deadly silence that chilled him to the bone. “Where are you?”

The call came in, just as he slipped back into the car and brought up the city map to choose his next target. Bruce steeled himself, then opened the comms line. “Robin...”

“I’ve got nothing. Nothing but a lot of bullet casings and a lot of muddy shoe prints that lead nowhere.” Tim sounded exhausted and beyond worried. “Ghost... Bruce...” He could all but hear him bite his lip on the other side of the line. “It’s been almost double the time Joker said he’d have. What if—“

“He’s alive.”

“Bruce—“

“He’s alive, Tim!” _I can feel it in my gut_ , Bruce wanted to say, but the words would not come out, as if saying it out loud might jinx it and make it untrue. “Go join Nightwing in his search. Red Hood is alive and we will find him.”

He had to. He had lost Jason once. He had nearly lost him again, so many times... He didn’t deserve to... Bruce did not want to go there. Not again. Not ever again.

The pain came back with the sudden force of a wrecking ball, hitting him hard in the gut and the chest to the point where he had to use every controlled breathing technique he knew to not throw up. With a quick sigh, Ghost accessed Jason’s old Robin files and opened the first audio file he could find.

It was a debrief, from a mission during which they had encountered the League of Assassins. Jason had saved him from an ambush by Ra’s, and although Bruce had been impressed with Jason’s fighting skills that night, it had not been enough to dispel the ridiculous power balance between the two. The debrief had once again ended in a shouting match. Well. Shouting from Jason. Disappointed, stern words from Bruce.

_“He is not a normal opponent, Jason. Ra’s is centuries old. He has more experience with a sword than you’ll ever have the chance to have.”_

_“So he says! Do you believe every random thing some themed crook tells you?”_

_“I believe Ra’s.”_

_“You believe his daughter. Don’t get me wrong, Bruce: she’s hot. But for a man who’s called the World’s Greatest Detective, you sure know how to overlook the obvious.”_

Ghost stopped the recording. He had listened to it before. He had been there. He knew how it had ended and the thought left a sour taste in his mouth. He had spent the entire evening complaining, listing negatives, when he should have commended Jason on his quick thinking and his dexterity in battle. He had held his own against Ra’s. That should have been impressive enough, but Bruce had overlooked that, too, chosen to ignore it and gloss over it like so many things. Jason had been right. He was great at overlooking the obvious.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, then brought up Joker’s message again.

_“Hello, tragic heroes behind the comedic costumes! I know you did probably not expect to see me again, but, oh, I do love a good plot twist, don’t you, batsies? Well, I must admit this time life wrote the plot. I had to improvise! And it’s all thanks to your boisterous pal, Red Hoodie! I used to wear that suit, you know, but I did it with more style... more ‘evil, mysterious count of blood’ than ‘biker fetishist’, but that’s what happens with lousy remakes. But that’s not the point of this message, is it? The point is that Red Hood is old. Old, old, old! I haven’t used that alias in years! Nobody should have to watch that tripe anymore, and so I’ve decided to do Gotham and its criminal element a favor and seal the evil little impostor away! But don’t worry: he’ll have an hour or two to repent his sins before he joins the costumed freak show in the sky. You are all welcome.”_

_What would Jason have seen in this message?_ Bruce wondered. _What would he notice first?_ He tried to picture Jason sitting next to him in the old Batmobile, the one with a passenger seat, before he had gone completely paranoid from Joker blood poisoning. Not Red Hood. Not Robin. Jason. Jason in his old Goodwill hoodie and Salvation Army sneakers, a deliberate statement that he didn’t want Bruce’s money. Jason with his unruly hair. Jason with his almost permanent expression of distrusting curiosity. _What would you say, Jason?_

The ghost looked at the video, puzzled, then wrinkled his eyebrows.

_“What’s up with all the movie critic lingo? He tryin’ to show off his horror tropes knowledge or somethin’?”_

“Movies... horror...”

_Tragic heroes. Comedic costumes. Plot twist. Life wrote the plot. Count blood. Lousy remakes. Alias. Watch that tripe. Impostor. Freak show._

_No body found. A perfectly matched voice. 1989. Mud._

  1. _Remake. Impostor._



_“The Dread”._

“Karlo...”

Bruce cursed under his breath as he switched off the video and opened the comms channel to Barbara. He wanted to smack himself for not seeing it sooner. By the time Oracle’s exhausted face appeared on screen, the car was ready to roll.

“Please tell me you found something.”

“I need your eidetic memory, Oracle. In the 1989 movie _The Dread_ , where did they shoot the graveyard scene?”

“What?”

“1989. _The Dread_. Graveyard scene. WHERE?”

“The old graveyard in Gotham East,” Barbara finally snapped back. “Siren’s Hill, so named for its proximity to the sea. Why?”

Bruce floored the pedal and the car shot along the road. He estimated six minutes to arrival. Enough time to explain on the way.

“It’s Karlo, Barbara. The new Joker. It’s Clayface. That’s why he looks and sounds just like the real Joker, but doesn’t remember Jason Todd. That’s why Jason couldn’t kill him and why Dick found no body. That’s why Tim found mud in the warehouse in the Narrows. And the video—“

“—is filled with movie references,” Oracle concluded. The fatigue was gone from her voice, replaced with cold, hard steel. “I’m digging now to find out which gravesite they used exactly for that scene in _The Dread_ , because that graveyard is huge. What’s Karlo’s deal, though? Why would he want to be Joker?”

“I’m not sure he wants to,” Bruce answered, then bit his lip. A patrol car switched on its sirens and tried to follow him as he shot along the highway at three times the legal limit, but it didn’t matter. Every second was precious. They would never catch him. And right now, he owed Barbara an explanation. “When I was in Arkham City, Joker hired Clayface to impersonate him in order to trick me. And it worked. I didn’t realize who he was until Talia stabbed him and the real Joker shot her.”

“Clayface shows up as a big lump of mud through our lenses, though,” Nightwing argued. Bruce was not surprised Barbara had looped him in immediately. “When I ki...” Dick took a deep breath. “When I _killed_ Joker, he had bones. I watched them break as I pummeled his face.”

“Lazarus.” Bruce took a sharp left onto the island of Gotham East. “My last fight with Clayface in Arkham City was on top of a Lazarus pit. He fell into it after I defeated him. It must have altered his physiology to allow him to imitate bones. It probably also drove him insane. There is a good chance he does not remember that he is Basil Karlo. He might be stuck living out his last great role.”

“You know, all of this would have been much easier to deduce, if you had put any of it into your Arkham City casefile,” Robin hissed over the comms. “But I’m gonna save that lecture for later if you tell us one thing: where is Jason?”

“Siren’s Hill cemetery, plot 49B,” Barbara fired back at him and Bruce updated his maps quickly. He could see the gates to the cemetery in the distance. “Also called the Grave of the Faceless Sailor.”

Joker had always had a cruel sense of humor. It made sense that Karlo emulated that. Ghost hit the brakes hard, then ejected from the Batmobile into a straight glide. Thirty feet from the grave, his systems went haywire, but for once, Bruce found nothing but joy in the loss of communications. He was in the right place. He knew it.

In the cold, harsh, pelting rain that had moved into Gotham over the last hour, the curved tombstone looked like a true wave. To its feet, the earth looked freshly disturbed. A few feet off to the side, laid an old, rotten coffin that Bruce pried open with his bare hands. The heavily decomposed body of the sailor really was missing a face. Bruce took a step back and looked around. There were no jammers in sight. No traps. Not even a shovel.

Only six feet of dirt between him and Jason. Six feet and two hands.

The soil felt slick and cold between his fingers as he started plowing into the ground and shoveling heaps off to the side at the head end of the grave. He had to get there first. If Jason was down there – and Bruce could only hope that he was, because otherwise their search would start from zero – he’d need air first. He dug like a mad dog burrowing for a bone, like a crazed miner looking for gold in barren ground. The rain only made it worse. The mud stuck to him like plastique, weighing down his arms and pushing the cold through his insulated suit and into his bones, but he had to try.

 _No. You have to do better than try_ , Bruce remembered himself saying in annoyance to Jason, all clad in his Robin uniform, as he tried to wind his way out of a particularly nasty knot of iron chains. _In the field, there is no trying. There is success or death. You have one hour._

The first foot of dirt was gone.

 _Master Bruce, what you just did to that poor boy was cold-blooded torture_ , Alfred’s voice echoed in his skull as he shoveled away the second foot of dirt. _Your father and mother, God rest their souls, would be ashamed of you_.

 _They would be_ , Bruce realized and the thought stung like a poisoned arrow. _Dear God... father, mother... forgive me._

Another foot was gone, but the rain threatened to push it right back in. Bruce pushed back harder. Halfway through the fourth foot, a thin metal sheet cut through his left gauntlet, drawing blood. Bruce ignored the injury as he cut deeper. The jamming signal was getting stronger. He was close. By the time he hit five feet, his arms were lead and his fingers rusty nails that ached with every motion.

Then, he struck something softer than wood and harder than dirt. Reluctantly, Bruce shoveled aside more of the soil in the middle of the grave to gain better footing and crouched down.

It was a bomb. A relatively simple one, but he could see the trip wires slithering off to all sides and deeper into the ground, no doubt connecting to the lid of the coffin. That explained why Jason hadn’t tried to dig himself out yet and Bruce wasn’t quite sure whether that thought was comforting or concerning. The jammer was attached to the lower end of the bomb, with several wires going back and forth between the two. Bruce activated the analogue flashlight integrated into his gauntlets and got to work tracing the wires. Whoever had designed this bomb to be wired to the jammer was either a genius or a madman.

He was halfway through cutting all essential wires and removing the explosive when the first drops of rain hit the pine board and a quick yelp came from below.

“Is anybody there?!”

“Don’t move!” _Dear God, Jason, please don’t move_ , Bruce begged in his mind as he cut another wire. His relief at hearing Jason’s voice lasted all of half a second, before images of both of them getting blown up by a triggered bomb filled his head. “I’m disarming the bomb. Give me one minute.”

“I can’t breathe...”

“Yes, you can!” He tried to keep the growl out of his voice, but it came automatically. Bruce wanted to slap himself. This was not helping. “I’ll get you out, Jason, I promise.”

The last wire went with a short snap and Bruce lifted the quarter pound block of C4 carefully off the plate next to the detonator and set it aside at the foot end of the grave, then tore out the wires of the comms jammer, and ripped off the top of the coffin cover.

Jason was gasping for air the moment the lid came off. A second later, he was scrambling out of the freshly made hole, catching splinters and dirt along the way as he grasped for the walls of the grave, trying to get out. The vitals reader in Ghost’s cowl was beeping away furiously and his first instinct was to grab Jason, to hold him and tell him to calm down.

 _There are two things parents should give their children_ , Bruce suddenly recalled his father telling him once. He had no idea why the memory came to him now, but it drowned out all the practiced routines in his head. _Two things: roots and wings_.

Bruce pushed his instincts down, laced his fingers together, and gave Jason the push he needed to get out of the grave.

“Oracle—“

“I’ve got Jason’s tracker back on display. His bio-readings are spiking. Bruce, what—“

“He’ll be fine.” He told it to her as much as he told it to himself. Bruce cut the link and climbed out of the grave. What he saw made him wince.

It was a familiar picture and that was half the problem. It shouldn’t have been familiar. It should have been a thing of the past, long forgotten and replaced with happier memories and thoughts, yet here Jason was, kneeling in the dirt, his hands clenched into fists around the sleeves of his jacket as he hugged himself for comfort, and his face turned towards the sky, eyes shut tight, and gasping for breath. The helmet had been tossed aside carelessly and now lay abandoned to Bruce’s feet. He picked it up carefully and tried to approach, only to have Jason stretch out his hand and bare his teeth.

“Don’t. You. Fucking. Dare!”

Bruce froze. It really was like before. For all two-hundred pounds of muscle, Jason looked just like the scrawny little thirteen-year-old he had taken in so long ago. Hurt. Freezing. Alone. The rain was pelting down onto him like a barrage of cold, running through his hair and onto his cheeks, where it mingled with salt, then further below into his collar and under his vest. Just like before.

 _Only this time it shouldn’t have to be necessary_ , Bruce thought with a sharp pang of guilt as Jason refused to lower his hand. They should have gotten past this long ago. They _had_ gotten past it long ago. There had been a time when Jason had trusted Bruce with his life, but those times were over.

 _And it’s Joker’s fault as much as it is mine_ , Bruce thought with a grim finality as he picked up the C4 and carried it over to a nearby patch of untended earth, a good fifteen yards from Jason’s position. Over here, it would do no more damage. Over here, he could put some explosive gel on it before leaving and detonate it from a safe distance.

When he returned a minute later, Jason’s arm was still stretched out in defense, even though it was trembling from the cold and the strain. Bruce frowned.

“Jason—“

“Don’t you dare!” Jason glared at him from underneath a wet curtain of black hair, marred by a single patch of white. “You think just ‘cause you dug me out I’ll let you lock me up somewhere else?”

“Jason—“

 _What._ Bruce felt his brain grind to a halt. That was what this was about? _That_ was why Jason was so terrified of him?

“Jason,” he ditched his utility belt and took a single step closer, then got to his knees slowly. “Jason, if I wanted you locked up, you’d be in prison already.” No. That wasn’t quite right. Bruce felt the smile hush over his lips before he could stop it. “Correction. You would have _been_ in prison. By now, you’d be halfway around the world and gone from the face of the Earth.”

“LIAR!” The arm sank for all of ten seconds. Gloved fingers dug into the cold dirt and threw a handful straight into Ghost’s face. “I killed him! I killed Joker! And Black Mask. And Killer Moth. And Tony Zucco. The Clock King. Julian Day. Sophia Babiloni. And that’s just the ones that come to my mind _right now_! I’ve killed _A LOT_ of people, Ghost!”

“I am aware.” Painfully so, Bruce thought, but he bit back the remark together with every other bit of morality that threatened to bubble up inside him. Jason laughed, a dark sound born out of disbelief and sarcasm.

“Oh really? So what, you’ve suddenly and magically decided to forget and forgive all my sins?”

“I rarely forget,” Bruce replied tersely. He was walking on egg shells and he knew it. “And I hardly ever forgive. You know that, Jason. I know what you did. I remember. But I also remember _you._ I remember the thirteen-year-old who raided the pantry and the library of the manor on a weekly basis. I remember the boy who went through more drawing paper in a week than I went through printing paper in a month. I remember the boy who was smart and unruly enough to have his tutors rant at me for hours. I remember the boy who could break a man’s jaw, then turn around to calm down an abused child like a personified lullaby. I remember the boy who went from just wanting to stay alive to wanting to go out and change the world, all thanks to a bit of discipline and encouragement. I remember the boy who made me smile in Crime Alley, of all places, on the anniversary of my parents’ deaths, no less. I remember you, Jason.”

“That boy is dead.” Jason’s head hung low, but the fire was not quite gone from his voice. “You’re chasing a shadow.”

“He’s not dead,” Bruce argued. “He’s grown up. And I’m not chasing anything. I am—“

Bruce felt the words die somewhere between his synapses and his throat. What exactly was he doing, anyway? Where was he going with this? What sudden bout of madness made him believe that anything he said would serve to make Jason feel any less like a caged animal?

“You are stalling,” Jason finished for him. “You are waiting for the others to get here, so you don’t have to deal with me anymore. You want me gone.”

“You _were_ gone,” Bruce lobbed back almost instantly and judging from Jason’s flinching, the anger had been clear in his voice as well. “You were gone from my life for more than five years, Jason, and it hurt. Every single day it hurt. You were my son. You still are my son. You always will be.”

“Liar,” it came out as little more than a sob, and suddenly, the strength that had all but radiated from Jason despite his disheveled state was gone with the wind. “You hate me.”

“No.”

Enough was enough. Bruce took a deep breath and closed his eyes, then got up slowly. He approached one step at a time, careful to keep his fists unclenched, his shoulders low and his head even lower. Jason eyed his movements wearily, like a wounded deer that was tired from running. That was familiar, too, and Bruce felt rage coil in his gut at the thought of just how much fire, how much life, Joker had taken from him.

“And yet you are here...” Bruce didn’t even realize that he had said it, even just whispered it, until Jason looked at him with pale blue eyes that all but begged him to get it over with. To put the last proverbial nail in the coffin. “Everything he took from you and yet you are here, Jason... Do you know how impressive that is? Do you know what that means to me?” Jason flinched as Bruce knelt down in front of him, took off the cowl, and stretched out his hands, but he was too tired to run.

 _My father would have known how to do this the right way_ , Bruce thought as he put his fingers around Jason’s trembling shoulders as softly as he could. _But I’m not him. You deserve better, but this is all I can give._

“Please... Listen to me, Jason... I hate... a lot of the things you did when you were still a child. I hate a lot of the things you do now. But I could never hate _you_. I never have. Not a single moment of a single day. You are my son. You are family.”

 _Say it_ , Martha’s voice echoed in his skull like a specter from a half-forgotten dream. _How would you have felt if we had never said it? Not once?_

“I love you, Jason.”

The words felt like lead crawling up his throat, but the moment they left his tongue, it was as if nothing had ever been easier, which was paradox to say the least. Bruce wanted to scream. Part of him wanted to take it back. It was a dangerous route to follow, to love someone. Sooner or later, the things he loved he always lost. No matter how hard he tried, he could never stop it. He always lost. He had lost his parents. He had lost Jason. He had even lost Dick, Tim, and Barbara, in a manner of speaking, figuratively, if not literally. And it had always mostly been his own fault. The thought clawed at Bruce every morning as he went to sleep. It clawed at him now. Death was all around him. It trailed in his shadow and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

 _“You don’t want me to be a doctor, like father?”_ Bruce remembered himself asking his mother with wide and confused eyes. He wasn’t sure how old he had been, but it hadn’t mattered. Martha had shaken her head with resolute grace.

_“No, I don’t, sweetheart, because children are not decorations for a parent’s ego and they are not a second chance for mommy and daddy to be young again. Children are love and love is a blessing. You don’t bicker about blessings. You’re thankful for every minute that you have them.”_

It was the sudden flinching of Jason’s muscles that drew him back into reality. Bruce looked at him in quiet trepidation. He was expecting another furious phrase, thrown at him in sheer, raw defense. He was expecting Jason to dash, to try to escape, judging from how restless his fingers, his eyes – pretty much every part of his body – was.

Instead, he was tackled by two-hundred pounds of solid muscle and it took Bruce all he had to maintain his balance, as Jason’s arms coiled around his torso like a vice, grasping at the suit just below Bruce’s shoulder blades. The burnt side of Jason’s face was pressed hard against the bat on his chest and Bruce had half a mind to push him away just a little or else the plating would leave bruises. Instead, he brought one hand around Jason’s back and the other into his hair, holding him as steady as he could without exerting pressure. Even now he doubted Jason would enjoy feeling caged.

“I killed so many people...” Jason tried once more in between choked sobs and Bruce wanted to sigh in frustration. “I killed Joker in cold blood.”

“So did Dick,” Bruce answered softly. “And technically, it was Clayface, not Joker.” He could all but see the pieces of the puzzle come together in Jason’s mind. “You are still my son. You always will be. And I’m grateful for every minute that you live.”

He truly was. Bruce could feel it. He had told so many lies in his life, but this was no lie. It was truth. He could only hope Jason understood that as well. He had done it once before, back then, on that April morning, when Jason had confessed that he was just waiting for Bruce to abandon him. Bruce could only pray he would understand it now, too.

“Alright,” it was the trembling of the muscles in Jason’s scarred back that slowly brough his mind back into the realm of logic. It was too cold and too rainy. They had to get out of here. “Let’s go, Ja--“

“No!” Jason’s grip was like iron, digging deeper into Bruce’s suit with a strength that his voice was sorely lacking. In between the kevlar of Bruce’s suit and Jason’s sore throat and clenched teeth, his words were barely audible. “Please... just a little longer... dad.”

Whatever momentum his muscles had had was gone in an instant. Bruce blinked, not quite sure if he had actually heard that right. He could count the times Jason had called him that on his two hands. It had made him feel ten feet tall then. It made him feel ten feet tall now. The logical part of him wanted to argue. They had to get up. They had to get out of the rain. He still had a quarter pound of C4 to detonate.

For once, Bruce pushed logic onto the back burner, closed his eyes, and tightened his grip.

“Jay?!”

Dick’s voice cut through the rain long before the sound of his running feet drowned out the rain. Jason flinched, then pushed back slowly. His eyes were red, but dry now, and he ran a hand over his cheeks quickly, before bracing himself to get up. Bruce stepped back as he rose, and put on his cowl again just in time to see Nightwing running out of the shadow and towards his brother.

There was no skidding to a stop, no careful approach. Dick slammed into Jason hard, pulling him into a short hug that sent them both staggering backward, before planting his feet firmly on the ground. His hands went to Jason’s shoulders, while his eyes did a quick ten-point check.

“Thank God we found you! Are you ok, Little Wing? Are you hurt?”

“I’ll live,” Jason croaked out tiredly and before he had any chance to say any more, he was drawn into another hug. For once, Jason did not fight back, and if Bruce had had to bet, he would have sworn there was a hint of amusement under all the annoyance in the way he rolled his eyes. “You can let go of me now, you over-friendly Blüdhaven dogtopus.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Tim chuckled as he approached the two of them slowly. His eyes were scanning the surroundings carefully and Bruce shook his head. There was no danger here. Tim nodded, then took of his cape and draped it around Jason’s shivering shoulders. “To him that’s a compliment.”

“I know...” Bruce watched in mild concern as Jason untangled himself slowly from Dick’s hug, burrowing deeper into the cape, then sat down on the gravestone of the Faceless Sailor. It was as if all the exhaustion of the night had suddenly caught up to him, sapping whatever strength was left in him straight from his bones. He looked up at Tim as he if he wasn’t quite sure whether he was trolling him or not. “That’s the second time you’ve given me your cape.”

“It was yours long before it was mine,” Tim explained calmly with a short, re-assuring squeeze of Jason’s shoulder. “You can have it back any time you want.”

Jason seemed to ponder that for a minute. His eyes were staring off into nothingness, as if fixated on one thing right in front of his face and another a thousand yards away.

“I don’t want your cape,” Jason finally muttered after a minute of deliberation. Dick crouched down next to him, concern written all over his body. Even from a distance, Bruce could see that the hold he had on Jason’s hand was light as a feather.

“Then what do you want, Jason? What do you want us to do? What do you need?”

“I...” Jason swallowed hard. “I want to go home.”

“Sure thing.” The tells were subtle, but Bruce could read them. Just a tiny fall in Dick’s voice. A spark of resignation. Anybody else might have missed it. “Just give me the address and I’ll drop you off. Feel free to give me something six blocks from your safe-house and wait until I’m back in Blüdhaven before you actually head for your apartment.”

Jason snorted at that, then looked at his feet. A storm was brewing in his son’s head and Bruce only hoped he would accept the offer. Even mostly unhurt Jason was in no shape to go back all by himself right now. When he finally looked up again, it was Tim’s face, not Dick’s that he sought out.

“1007 Mountain Drive. If that’s still an option.”

For a moment, time seemed to have stopped. Bruce watched, immobile as a stone, as Dick’s jaw dropped a few inches. Tim blinked once, then twice, before finally answering the furious beeping of his gauntlet comms. The holo slid open effortlessly, revealing Barbara’s face and the warmest smile Bruce had seen all week.

“Jason, you are family. Our home is your home. It’s always an option.” The sound of typing was nearly lost in the rain, but it only lasted for a few seconds. When Barbara turned her full attention to them again, the smile was gone. “I’ve contacted Alfred to give me a lift and we’ll meet you there. And now get out of the rain, all of you. You’re gonna catch your death.”

“Fucker already missed me twice tonight,” Jason chuckled darkly, “you think third time’s a charm?”

“Jay!” Bruce shook his head as Dick slapped his brother’s arm playfully and drew his lips into a pout. “That’s not funny! Come on, we’ll take my bike. Just like old times.”

Jason did not protest. He gave a Bruce a short nod, handed the cape back to Robin, retrieved his helmet, and followed Dick back to the road. Bruce watched them disappear in the rain and the dark, and headed for the block of C4 when he noticed Tim had not moved. Bruce turned around quickly, only to find Tim staring at him blankly as he put his cape back on.

“Tim.”

“Bruce.” Tim had never been one to be lost for words and yet here he was, clearly trying to figure out how to move forward. In the end, he went for the straight approach, closing the gap between them quickly. His face was harsh as chiseled stone, but up close Bruce could see that there was no malice behind it. One of Tim’s hands rose slowly, until it rested on Bruce’s shoulder. “I don’t know what happened between you and Jason before we got here, but I was expecting him to be erratic or reclusive at best, or outright violent at worst. I don’t know what you did, but thank you.”

“We talked,” Bruce mentioned flatly and he could tell that Tim was having a hard time accepting it as truth from the way his eyebrows rose. “There were things I should have said to him a long time ago.”

“Wow...” Tim shook his head, then gave him the brightest smile Bruce had seen from him in a long while. “I guess the end times _are_ near. I’m proud of you, Bruce. Both of you.”

***

 _It really is just like old times_ , Jason thought to himself as they raced up the road to the manor. Dick’s motorbike, the rush of the air as he floored the pedal, the warmth radiating from the human furnace that was Dick Grayson. It felt familiar. It felt like home.

Alfred and Barbara were waiting for them when they got there, holding open the front door for him and greeting him with open arms, while Dick disappeared around the driveway to put the bike into the garage. Jason eyed the main hall with a mix of bewilderment and nostalgia.

It was... strange being back here again so soon. Less than a month ago he had been dying to get out of here, to escape from these halls. Now, all Jason could think about was the warmth that radiated from every corner of the house and the familiar feeling of thick, soft carpet underneath his feet, like a sea of soft moss, as he walked up to the second floor and along the corridor in front of the bedrooms.

The third bedroom on the west side of the south wing was just as he had remembered it. The bed, the couch, the closet, the desk, the curtains... it was as if he had never left. The sheets called to him, hammering in the point his brain had been trying to make for the better part of six hours. He still had traces of sedative in his blood and it had been a mostly horrible night. He needed sleep.

Sleep was the one thing he didn’t want.

He grabbed a change of clothes – simple gray sweat pants and shirt – and headed for the bathroom instead. For once, the tiles in the shower did not bother him. At least it wasn’t wood and dirt. At least it wasn’t a coffin. At least it wasn’t cold, harsh rain. It was a soft, warm shower. It helped with the cold. It did not help with the dirt. Even two thorough scrubbings later, Jason still felt as if he had dirt stuck between his toes, his fingers, his teeth. _It’s just in your head_ , not-Robin tried to console him, but Jason sneered at the effort. ‘In your head’ was never a good thing, because ‘in your head’ had a habit of sticking around. Jason cursed under his breath as he grabbed a tooth brush from the cabinet and started scrubbing out his teeth. More dirt. More ‘in your head’ crap.

By the time he was done, his flesh was red and raw, all over, adding to the general sense of uneasiness that had settled in him since he had stepped into the room. Jason flicked off the lights, closed the window, climbed under the sheets, shut his eyes in defiance, and started counting.

The first thing to go was the window, at a count of forty-six. Bruce had always insisted on keeping them closed, for added security. Alfred had agreed, to prevent the wind from mucking up the tidiness of the rooms. All Jason had thought about, back then, was the heating bill. Now, all he could think about was oxygen. Sweet. Glorious. Oxygen. The night air was cold against his skin as he opened the window wide, but it didn’t matter. He could breathe. That’s what mattered. Satisfied, Jason climbed back into bed.

He had reached a count of ninety-two when he felt the first signs, the initial spark of uneasiness, of an oncoming panic attack. He reached for the lamp on the bedside table and knocked it straight over, which only proved where the problem was. It was dark. Way too dark. Jason forced his breathing back down into a regular pattern for the second time that night as he stumbled over to the light switches and hit them all. As the lamps got brighter, his pulse and heartbeat slowly returned to normal. Jason gave a deep sigh, then returned to bed.

Two-hundred and forty seconds later, the uneasy feeling still persisted, and Jason felt ready to put his fist through a nearby piece of furniture. The desk, with his sketches hanging above it, looked particularly inviting.

_My sketches..._

Jason got up slowly, the comforter still wrapped tightly around his torso as he approached one of the less coherent drawings – ‘Neo-Rorschachs’ Dick had called them once – and traced it slowly with his fingers. The motion sent a nearby piece floating to the ground and Jason cursed as he picked it off the carpet.

The moss green carpet. In a room with emerald sheets and curtains. Not his color. Tim’s.

Suddenly, he felt like an intruder, like he was infringing on someone else territory, on someone else’s privacy. Jason shuddered as he ripped the drawings off the wall, ditched the comforter on the bed and closed the window once more.

This was as much his room as that pine box in Gotham East.

He tip-toed out into the hallway with his sketches in one hand and his tooth brush in the other. The manor was silent as a grave, except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the main hall, and Jason wanted to scream. How anyone could sleep like this was a mystery to him. With a quick frown, Jason walked up to the next door in the hallway and let himself in quietly.

The room looked just as he remembered it, with plasterwork, drapery, and sheets of vibrant Venetian red. His desk, his bed, his closet – they were all in the right place. If not for two anomalies, it would have seemed to him that he had walked back in time.

The first anomaly was lying on the foot end of his bed and mewled softly as he approached, followed by happy purring as he set the tooth brush down on the nearby dresser and bent down to pet the kittens shiny fur.

“Did you miss me, Mitaine?”

“We all did.”

That was the second anomaly. Jason scowled as he looked at the window sill. Dick’s legs were in an impossible tangle and his shoulders had long since grown too broad for his current perch, but it didn’t seem to bother him.

“Do you enjoy sleeping in cramped places?” Jason raised his eyebrows and started digging through the desk drawers. The tape was still in the same place. So was the sticky tack. He put the pictures up one after another, sorted by date. “Because in that case, I can _really_ recommend pine boxes. Quite the breath-taking experience...”

Dick, predictably, was not laughing. Even in the dark of the room, Jason could tell his eyes were filled with worry. He slipped off his perch with practiced ease, then walked over to the dresser at the head end of the bed and turned on the reading light. In the soft, warm glow of the lamp, the shadows around Dick’s eyes only looked more pronounced.

“You know, normally I’d tell you that passive-aggressive stabs do not healthy trauma management make, but given that I’ve seen much, much worse coping strategies in this family, I’m gonna let it slide.”

“Does that include yourself, ‘Officer Grayson’?” He finished putting up the last picture, put the window ajar, and turned around once more. Underneath the innocent, calm façade, Jason knew Dick was fuming. “Because huddling on the window sill of your formerly-believed-deceased brother’s room instead of, you know, walking next door and actually talking to said brother does not seem like a healthy thing to do.”

“Maybe not for me,” Dick countered as he sat down and reached for the kitty. The Siamese mix hissed at him in blatant disdain, putting another grin on Jason’s face. It vanished the moment Dick looked at him once more. “But you left for ‘your’ room after barely saying high to Alfred and Barb, so we figured we’d keep our distance for now. You know, let you have your space.”

“That is strangely considerate coming from you.” The look of hurt that ghosted across Dick’s face went as briefly as it had come, but it still felt like a shot to the gut. Jason winced hard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I mean... I...”

Jason wanted to scream. How had this been so easy when he had been buried six feet beneath the ground, under a bomb, and a jammer, with limited oxygen to feed his brain? Did normal people have to be delusional from oxygen starvation in order to have great ideas, too, or was that just him?

“I’m sorry, Dick.” He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and counted to five. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I didn’t mean a lot of things I said to you over the last few months. I know you mean well. I know you’re trying your best. I know you feel responsible because you’re the oldest and you were the first to have to put up with Bruce’s bullshit and honestly you deserve a medal for that, it’s just...” Jason shook his head. “I don’t know, okay? Oh, and I’m sorry I didn’t answer your texts.”

Suddenly, Dick was bent over laughing, a bright, warm sound that Jason hadn’t heard this clearly in years. He remembered, though. He remembered what it had been like, first-Sunday-of-the-month training sessions with Dick. Training and socializing. Dick had tried. It was all he had ever been able to do. Try.

“Jesus, Jason...” The laughter finally ebbed away into a slight giggle, before dissolving into a soft smile. “I swear, every time I think you’re about to try and tear my head off for something, you turn it around and make it hilarious, and then I remember that you really had an awesome sense of humor.”

Jason bristled. “Bruce said something like that.” The words had left his mouth before he had had any chance to consider their possible consequences. Now, as Dick tilted his head at him, Jason wanted to kick himself. “He said I made him laugh, back then in Crime Alley, when we first met.”

“You did.” Dick’s smile morphed from amused to nostalgic. “Alfred once told me that that was the thing that had seemed to impress Bruce the most about you: that, even despite everything life had thrown at you, even in the face of how much you suffered, you weren’t dead inside. You were still able to laugh and make other people laugh, to move and be moved.”

“Emphasis on ‘were’,” Jason countered, but Dick put up his hand almost immediately.

“Nuh-uh, objection! You just made me laugh for joy and I had been feeling like crap until five minutes ago. That proves you’ve still got it.”

“It’s circumstantial evidence.”

Dick grinned. “Do you feel better now?”

His first instinct was to say ‘no’ out of sheer spite, but the word never got to his mouth. _Do I?_ He tried to remember what it had been that had made him so uncomfortable he had felt the need to escape from the room he himself had chosen, but the memory was fading already, like the end of a long verbal fight, when neither party remembered what spawned the argument in the first place. In the end, Jason shrugged.

“I guess.”

“Good.” Dick got up slowly and straightened out his shirt. He was still in that bare-thread BPD get-up and Jason rolled his eyes, half in annoyance, half to mask the yawn that had snuck up on his face. It was hard to get anything past Dick, though. Especially with less than two feet between them. “Do you want me to stay?”

 _Do I?_ It should have been a simple question. Yes. No. Pick one. It should have been easy, but it never was. The fact that it was late and he had been buried alive and he had nearly died did not help. Jason sighed.

“I honestly don’t know.”

“That’s ok.” Dick patted him on the shoulder lightly. “That’s perfectly ok, Jason. How about this? I’ll go back to my room. If you change your mind, just knock, ok? Don’t worry about waking me up. God knows none of us have a steady sleeping schedule to begin with.”

 _That_ Jason could not argue with. He nodded slowly and watched as Dick made for the door. He was almost gone when he poked his head through the door once more.

“Oh, and if you’re really undecided, check the linen chest. Top right corner. Good night, Jason.”

The cat mewled softly next to him as the door closed. Jason shot her a puzzled look.

“Yeah, I know. He’s completely insane. Now scoot over.”

The bed _felt_ just as it had all those years ago, and the thought was both strange and comforting at the same time. In the half-light of the reading lamp and the slight breeze coming from the window, the canopy curtains looked like ruby rivers. It reminded him of that hotel in Rome they had stayed at during the first time he had accompanied Bruce on a business trip. It reminded him of sun, of warmth, of ancient temples, and good food.

And yet, sleep refused to come. This time, though, Jason knew what the reason was. He crawled to the end of the bed quickly, opened the linen chest, and reached down deep into the top right corner. His fingers hit something small and soft and he pulled sharply.

_Fucking Blüdhaven octopus..._

The plushie was simple and yet stunningly accurate, from the shape of the mask, down to the guards on its shin. It was missing the guns, but that didn’t make it unrecognizable. On the gray, armored chest, the red bat shone brightly. He had to wonder who the hell had gotten close enough to Red Hood to get that good an idea of the costume _and_ live to make it into a comfort object for little kids, of all things. It seemed like those two things should be mutually exclusively and yet here it was...

“Schroedinger’s fucking plushie.” He put the doll in between the two shams at the head of the bed, then dimmed the reading light to half luminescence and curled up underneath the comforter once again. The cat walked over and sniffed the new object in suspicion, then curled up right in front of his chest. Jason closed his eyes and resolved to count to six-hundred.

He was out before he hit thirty.


	35. Rest In Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason has survived being buried alive, but not for the first time he realizes that choosing to live can often be just as hard, if not harder, as choosing not to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And vacation is over! I spent most of my time writing this chapter while sunbathing on a beach or in a hammock, so I'm guessing that's why this one is so... uplifting. So much C to the H this time, I'm frankly surprised. Hope you guys enjoy it.
> 
> Google searches of this chapter: demolishing marble
> 
> For status updates, writing trivia, fandom/fanfiction/writing related questions and occasional random ramblings, please visit my tumblr: http://lananiscorner.tumblr.com/

He couldn't breathe. There was dirt in his mouth, dirt in his hands, dirt in his eyes. It was everywhere. It clung to him as he tried to climb out of his grave. An armored hand wrapped around the sole of his left boot and Jason felt panic claw at him. He had to get out. He had to. And he had to do it before the hand dragged him back in.

But it never did.

There was a push and suddenly he was free. Suddenly there was air, blissful, fresh, cold air all around him and in his lungs. The sky above him was red, as was the soft warmth around his legs.

 _Sheets_ , Jason realized as he rubbed his eyes and shook off the last bits of sleep that tried to drag him back under. _Sheets and curtains. I'm not in a grave. I'm in my room in the manor. I'm home._

"I'm home." He repeated the words over and over as he sunk back into the sheets and took a moment to dispel the last threads of panic that still clung to him. He was home. Joker had not killed him. Bruce had not locked him up. He was safe.

 _You are one ridiculously lucky son of a bitch_ , Jason thought as he slowly crawled out of bed and headed for the bathroom. There was no dirt in his eyes or hair, of course, nor in his mouth either, but he still took that hot shower and scrubbed out his teeth twice. By the time he was done, both the cold draft against his skin and the desert in his mouth finally registered. Jason shrugged into the first set of sweatpants he could find in his closet, closed the window, and headed for the kitchen.

The house was just as hauntingly silent as it had been when he had arrived and it was shrouded in twilight. The Persian mix diva hissed at him as he descended the stairs and Jason hissed right back. He had been through too much shit over the last twenty-four hours to take any from the cat.

The kitchen was as empty as the halls, but judging from the contents of the fridge, Alfred had been here. Jason eyed the assortment of protein shakes in the door with slight bemusement, before deciding to pick the chocolate-coconut shake from the second row. He was halfway through the bottle when his instincts kicked in and his feet automatically shifted to a defensive stance. To his far left, Tim chuckled quietly in amusement.

"I swear I was not trying to sneak up on you."

"And yet you did it better than your asshole cat." Jason grinned as Tim rolled his eyes, then mustered him quickly from head to toe. The jumpsuit said he was headed for a jog. The slightly puffed face and half-closed eyes said he was headed for bed. "You heading out?"

"Morning run through the hills," Tim confirmed.

Jason raised an eyebrow. "You do know it's the end of February, right?"

"Exactly." Tim headed for the fridge and grabbed the bottle of filtered water that sat on the top shelf. "This is the first time in two months I’ll not have to plow through two feet of snow, so I’m going. For the brook trail, to be precise."

"Up the mountain, following the creek, cross over at the spring, then down the other side?"

Tim nodded. "Not gonna go all the way to the top, though. That used to be Barb's workout whenever she was here. She called it--"

"... The Sunshine Trail," Jason finished for him. He remembered those days. Granted, it had been much rarer for Barb to visit him at the manor than the other way around, but he'd been up there a few times. "It was her favorite, because you've got a free view of the Bay for almost the entire trail." Another memory came back uninvited and Jason chuckled. "One time we went up there together with Dick, but we only had water for two. Got a crash course in DIY water filtration and purification that night."

"Oh god, yes..." The sound that came from Tim's throat was half groan, half chuckle. "If I had a nickel for every time Barb and Dick had to educate my raised-rich, whitebread ass on survival in the wilderness, I could have been a billionaire before Bruce fake-croaked." A brief smile hushed over his lips, only to be replaced by a frown. "Call me sentimental, I'm not going all the way to the top of that trail unless Barb's coming with me."

Jason flinched. It was an honorable sentiment, but... "You do know that paraplegia is generally a permanent thing, right?"

"Why do you think Bruce had Wayne Industries' biomedical division focus on nerve damage treatments?" Tim patted him on the shoulder quickly, before heading for the main hall. "Feel free to join me."

It was less than an order and more than an offer. Jason was tempted to lob back 'feel free to go fuck yourself' on sheer reflex, but Tim was already gone. On second thought, he was glad he hadn't gotten the chance. A jog up and down the brook, up and down a trail of sunshine and fresh air did sound tempting. Jason finished his protein shake, then rinsed out the bottle and put it onto the dish rack to dry.

His boots were where he had left them last night, although someone, probably Alfred, had taken the time to arrange them neatly side by side to the other shoes, rather than leaving them haphazardly discarded. He had barely dipped half a foot into them when Tim set down a pair of sneakers by his side.

"You didn't honestly think that the pair you wore when you left were the only pair Barb got for you, did you?"

***

The trail was just as he remembered, winding alongside the river through a jungle of now leafless oaks and evergreen firs. The wet needles softened his steps as he followed the sounds of the river and the muddy outline of the lightly-tread path. Bruce's training regiment had always been much more focused on muscle building rather than cardio.

They reached the stepping stones – the highest point below the spring proper – just after half an hour. The melting snow had flooded the brook, swallowing half the stones and turning most of the rest into slippery invitations for a quick bath and a broken ankle. Jason plotted his path, took a deep breath and started walking.

He took the first four stones in big strides, making sure to twist his feet into the best direction for gaining proper footing. The fifth was his perch, flat, raised, and thankfully dry, and he made sure to keep it that way as he put his left foot down firmly near the edge and slowly sank down into a cross-legged sitting position. Another neat little trick Barbara had shown to him once. Another thing that had been taken from her. Jason took a deep breath and turned his attention towards the horizon.

The sun had only just started to rise and it was coloring the cold blue sky in hues of yellow and pink. The bay, normally an unattractive, greenish gray, shimmered in the fresh light. All around him, the water was tumbling down the slope to the sea, and the sound of the water and the waking birds nearby almost drowned out the snap of the shutter. Almost.

Tim was standing on the only remaining dry stone, balanced perfectly as he lined up the shots. Jason couldn't help but scoff.

"I always thought you were some kind of photography nerd, yet here you are, taking pictures on your phone."

"I'll have you know that this is Wayne Tech's latest model and it's got the best smartphone camera on the market." He crouched down carefully, then took a few more shots just above the water. "Besides, this baby is water-proof up to a hundred meters and can survive a fall off a rooftop thirty floors up. My Nikons cannot."

"Nikons?" Jason balked. "Plural? How many have you got, Mr. Raised-Rich Whitebread Ass?""

Tim grinned. "How many guns have you got, Mr. Professional Reaper Cheater?"

"I hate you." Jason crossed his arms and focused on the sunrise once more. It was hardly a fair comparison. "Exact number depends on how many safe-houses and caches I've got at any given time. Each one has at least one pair of my customized duals."

The sound of the shutter stopped. Jason refused to look.

"You wanna hear something funny? I don't even remember which guns I based them on. The guy I was getting my military education from had me shoot with pretty much everything under the sun and one day I just up and decided I wanted something that could work as both a handgun and a sniper rifle."

"So you just went ahead and designed a brand new gun?" He had expected the amusement in Tim's voice. Not so much the slight awe. "How long did that take?"

Jason frowned as be racked his brain for an answer. It had been a long time ago. It hadn't really seemed important either. "Designing new tech isn't really a straight process, Tim. There are usually multiple design sketches, lots of trial and error—“ _Very little of which is probably of any importance_ , Jason reminded himself. Just give him a fucking estimate. "About three weeks, maybe?"

Tim blinked at him like a deer in the headlights, then shook his head. "Holy hell... Jason, you've got a talent."

"Well..." He took a pebble from the riverbed and threw it, watching as it bounced off a stone farther down the river and disappeared into the forest. "I did plan to study engineering at Princeton at some point."

A point that was long gone. A point when life had seemed great, when he had honestly believed that the worst was over. A time when he had dared to hope that there could be a happy, normal-ish life waiting for him at some point. A life before Joker and the scars and the abandonment and the many, many times he had nearly died horrible deaths. A time in the past. Lost and gone forever.

"Jason? Earth to Jason, do you read me?"

"You know what was the worst part about getting buried alive?"

Perhaps this wasn't the right time and place. He was ninety-nine percent sure Tim had better things to do with his time, but the words were clawing at his throat, begging to be let out, threatening to choke him all over again.

"All I could think about were all the things I haven't done with my life. Didn't get to go to college... hell, I didn't even get to finish high school. Never had an honest job, short of that technical design gig that Lucius arranged for me last year, which, let's be real, should have gone to someone who actually _earned_ it. The closest I ever got to having a boyfriend or girlfriend was a kiss from someone who would have rather shot herself if given half a chance. Didn't get to finish Mako's sushi menu with Barb. And for as much as I generally hate Dick's clinginess, I didn't want the last words I ever said to him, or any of you, be 'fuck off'."

Jason took a deep breath and looked straight ahead. The sun had finally crawled all the way above the horizon. It was almost ridiculous how utterly serene this sunrise was when all he wanted to do was scream.

"Cards on the table and full disclosure: if I had died last night, who would have noticed? The crooks in Gotham might have breathed a little more easily for a while, but they're like weeds. They always come back again anyways. You, Barb, Dick, Alfie, Lucius, even Bruce... Yeah, you might have missed me, but you lost me once and managed to move on just fine. You could have done it again. And to everyone else, Jason Todd might as well never have re-appeared to begin with, because I've done fuck all with my life since I got another chance."

"You know," He wasn't entirely sure when Tim had put away the phone and sat down, but it didn't really matter. "Normally I would argue that patrolling Gotham as Red Hood and donating significant amounts of your inheritance to City of Fear relief and clean-up operations is not 'fuck all', but I'm guessing that's not the 'you' you are worried about."

Jason scowled. "No shit, Sherlock..."

"But, see, this kind of thing is exactly why I don't kill."

"What the fuck?" The urge to plant his fist in Tim's face and drown him in the river was suddenly very tempting. "You're pulling this morality superiority bullshit on me NOW?"

"No." Tim merely shook his head. "I'm telling you that it's not too late yet, Jason. You didn't die. You're still alive and as long as you're still alive, it's not too late yet. College, job, boyfriend or girlfriend, Mako's sushi, awful brotherly bonding with Dick - you can still have all of that. And don't get me wrong," he held up his hand the moment Jason moved his mouth to retort, "it's gonna be hard. It's gonna be a LOT harder than before, because you're scarred, inside and outside. Nothing and no-one in the world can change that, although trust me on this, if we could all take a piece of what happened to you and carry it ourselves, we would. You know what we can do, though? We can help you. And we would, gladly. We can help you every step along the way, except for the first one."

"Oh really?" Jason wanted to laugh, but the sound died somewhere en route from his vocal cords to his tongue. "Do tell, oh wise oracle: what is the first step?"

"The hardest one of all," Tim said over a deep sigh. "You need to decide that you actually want to be more than Red Hood."

It was the ringing of Tim's phone that saved him the trouble of finding a good rebuke that wouldn't involve burning bridges with his family. Again. Tim took one look at the screen, then face-palmed.

"Oh shit... You didn't leave a note before you headed out the door by any chance, did you?"

"All my gear is still there." Jason shrugged. "Hell, my boots are still there. Let Goldie use his detective brain to figure it out by himself."

That drew a chuckle from Tim. "Tempting, but I think I'll just answer this before his blood pressure goes through the roof."

Tim was off the rock and on his phone within two seconds. Judging from the exasperation in his voice in between long stretches of holding the phone just an inch too far from his ear, Dick had already worked himself into a frenzy. Jason took one last long look at the rising sun, then followed Tim across the remaining rocks to the north side of the stream. The sooner they got back, the better.

***

Most people considered going downhill easier than going up. Jason wanted to call bullshit. Every step echoed inside his skull, hammering the question in deeper: where was he even supposed to start? So many things had gone wrong. So many chances had been missed. His life was a jungle of regrets and he was stuck in the middle.

It was only fitting that they got stuck on their path down the river as well.

It was a tree that had fallen right across their path, probably as a result of one the blizzards that had raged last month. Tim gave it all of half a minute of consideration, before turning left and going through the thicket. Jason raised an eyebrow as he jogged after him.

"What's the matter, Tim? It's just one tree."

"One tree, a whole lot of branches and a bush of poison ivy," Tim lobbed back at him as he navigated a sea of leafless trees, "and there's another path maybe three-hundred yards to the north that also leads back to the manor."

"There'd better be."

Jason counted as they went along. It was harder out here in the wild than in the city, where everything had been cut out with a pencil and ruler on paper first and there were always halfway reliable objects for comparison, such as cars or chimneys or doors or windows, but he had had enough missions in the jungles of South America to drill the metric measurements into his every step.

It took them precisely three-hundred and forty-one meters to get to the other path. It was much more narrow and much less wet, which was an acceptable tradeoff as far as Jason was concerned. At least until it converged with another path that curved even further north and actually had wooden boards. Jason felt his feet grind to a halt.

"I know this path."

Tim paused and turned. For a moment, the gears in his head were turning in quiet puzzlement. Then, realization hit him and drained the color from his face.

"Oh my god... Oh god, Jason, I'm so sorry--"

Jason rushed past him, careful to avoid the hand that reached out for him in concern. His footsteps thundered over the wooden floorboards and echoed back into his brain, loud enough to drown out the thought that had been trying to take hold there.

 _Tim probably thinks I'm out of my mind_ , Jason realized as the edge of the forest came into his sightlines, revealing just a glimmer of the gardens between the trees and the manor. He wanted to laugh. Nothing could have been further from the truth. He wasn't crazy. On the contrary. He finally knew what he was doing. He finally knew where to start.

He went in through the servants' entrance, the one that lead straight to the kitchen. It was locked, of course, but he was pleased to see that Tim had had the same electronic system installed that had been there in the old manor, and that Alfred had set it to the same code as before. The door opened without a hitch and Jason slipped out of his shoes out of sheer routine before heading straight for the coffee machine.

He had barely started to sip from his cup of utter blackness when a concerned voice piped up behind him.

"What the hell-- You just waltz in here like nothing— Jason—"

"You don't write, you don't call..." Jason downed half his cup, then turned around and grinned at the gorgeously disheveled mess in front of him that was Dick Grayson. It was just unfair how some people could fall out of bed at way too early in the morning and be worried sick and still look great. "You could have been lying dead in a ditch, for all we know!"

Dick blinked, then shook his head in utter confusion. Strike one successful. He now had a few more moments to enjoy his coffee. Jason downed the other half and turned back around to refill, then faced Dick once more. Just behind him, Barbara sat with the tiniest of grins on her face, clearly more amused than angered.

"In my defense," Jason muttered through his second dose of caffeine, "Tim did call."

"After you were already gone for almost an hour!" Dick ran his hands through his hair in a gesture that screamed desperation. "Look, you can go anywhere you want; I'm not saying you need to be cooped up in here 24/7—"

"Again," Jason added with short smirk that stopped Dick for all of half a second.

"But bailing on us at ass o' clock in the morning without so much as a note after you just jumped out of the jaws of death the night before? Not cool. Really. Not. Cool."

"You're right. I'm sorry."

Jason used the moment of stunned silence he got from Dick to finish his coffee. Alfred, who seemed entirely unsurprised by any of what was happening in front of his eyes, merely took the cup from his hand. Jason thanked him with a curt nod, then put his hands on Dick's shoulders.

"I'm sorry I made you worry. Good news is I now know exactly where to start." He turned to the doorway, where Tim waited patiently, with a certain tension all throughout his body that screamed 'ready to separate these two morons if I have to'. "Do you have a sledgehammer, by any chance?"

"What?!"

The question came from Dick, but he could see the confusion in Tim's face as well. Jason rolled his eyes.

"Sledge-ham-mer. Big fucking hammer with blunt ends. Weighs at least ten pounds. Used for demolition work. Oh, and a heavy duty garbage sack, preferably not black, if you have, but I think I'll manage if you don't."

"Jason, what the hell..." He took a quick glance to check if the look of horror on Dick's face matched the shudder in his voice - it did - then promptly turned away again. He doubted he'd understand. "Jason, what are you up to? Did I miss something? Do you have a body to dispose of or something?"

"Or something," Jason confirmed. "Tim?"

"In the shed next to the garage," Tim muttered through clenched teeth, and Jason took off before anyone - Dick - had a chance to protest. Strike two successful.

The shed was locked the old-fashioned way, but that had never stopped him before. Hiding lock picks in his socks had become second nature and he went to work quickly. The garbage bags were near the entrance, blue as the sky and thick as tarp, and he ripped one off the roll quickly. The hammer was resting in the far right corner, tucked away behind cans of paint and other remodeling equipment. Jason slung it over his right shoulder with ease. He wanted to hit himself over the head with the damn thing for not thinking about this sooner.

Tim and Dick were trailing in his shadow as he marched up the boarded path and back into the forest. Dick had finally stopped trying to get his attention, but that only meant that Tim now had to play his game of a hundred questions. Jason made a mental note to buy the poor guy a beer of his choice once this was over. Alfred and Barbara were following a little further back, but Jason tuned out that thought. They were unlikely to try to stop him.

 _It's been a little more than a year_ , Jason noticed as he finally approached the grove. He had had more than a year to do this. Another thing to regret, but not anymore.

The stone sat just where he remembered it, nestled against the far edge of the grass line. White with golden letters.

_Jason Peter Todd_

_1995-08-16 ~ 2012-08-16_

_Friend & Ally ~ Brother & Son_

Jason slipped the hammer off his shoulders and secured his grip on the handle.

"I am not dead."

The first swing did not seem to do anything to the stone, but Jason was not deterred. He raised his arm again and brought the head down hard. This time the tiniest of cracks formed in the marble. Jason smiled and raised the hammer again.

"I..." The crack deepened.

"Am..." The first letter was cleaved in two.

"Not..." The cracks spread like a virus.

"Dead..." The stone budged ever so slightly.

"Yet!"

At last, the marble burst into pieces. The satisfaction that spread through every fiber of his body as the damning letters came apart drowned out the slight pull in his shoulders and the mild agitation in his lungs as his breath left him in huffs of cold air.

To his left, Dick stared at the broken monument, mesmerized and yet somehow horrified at the same time. Jason raised the hammer once more and brought it down again and again, until no two letters remained together, before dropping it to Dick's feet the moment he was done. The only way he could have felt any more satisfied about the entire affair was if it had been Bruce in his stead.

"I'm not dead. That thing had no reason to exist."

"No," Barbara snatched the garbage bag from him before he could do so much as blink and held it wide open. "It really didn't."

Dick laughed. Then, he started picking the debris off the grass and dumping it into blue oblivion.

"Rest in pieces, untimely headstone."

"You know..." Tim picked up a piece and examined it with a bemused smile. "This really makes me sad that the manor and the cave got blown up. I would have loved to watch you take that hammer to the glass case. Bruce built one in your honor, you know, with your old suit in it. Put it right in the path between the suits and the batmobile, so we'd have to see it every time we went for patrol."

Jason picked up and disposed a piece of his own. Technically, he had just destroyed someone else's property. Technically, he had just defiled a grave. And yet, he felt more alive, more content than he had had in years. Like a black cloud had lifted, just a little.

"'My old suit'? As in the one I wore when Joker shot me?"

"The same," Dick confirmed with a bitter sneer. "God, I wanted to smash that damn case every time I walked anywhere near it."

"I wish you'd done it." Jason picked up the last piece and put it in the bag. There were some powdery traces of his amateur demolition work left on the grass, but he had no doubt that those would get washed away with the rain. "I wish Bruce were here for this."

"Rest assured I shall relate this morning's events to him as soon as I return to Bracken, Master Todd," Alfred said without a hint of remorse. "I will be happy to inform you of his reaction."

"Please do." Jason took the bag from Barbara and tied it shut into a double knot. This time, going downhill really did feel easier. He dumped it into the trash bin without a second thought, returned to the kitchen, and sat down with another cup of coffee. Somehow, it tasted just a little better, a little more intense, and Jason savored the sudden clarity in his mind as he leaned back against the wall.

The others returned soon after. Jason watched them file into the kitchen and around the table one by one, while Alfred started breaking eggs for their day morning dose of protein. Somewhere between the omelets and the salad, Barbara's kitty found her way into his lap and Barbara smiled as he started scratching her behind the ears.

"Mitaine's the one who let us know you were gone, you know. She went up and down the manor looking for you and when she couldn't find you, she started mewling in front of my door until I let her in."

"Sorry she woke you."

"Don't you dare shift responsibility onto the poor cat," Dick jabbed with a quick smile that proved that there truly was no bite behind the words. A second later, the smile morphed into a wistful glance. "Maybe we should all get cats. I heard they are super for PTSD."

Barb chuckled through her tea. "Dick... Sometimes you barely remember to feed yourself. I love you, but I wouldn't trust you to keep a goldfish."

"I don't know," Jason reached for the cup of red tea Alfred had set down in front of him and took a tentative gulp. "They do build aquariums with automated feeding and cleaning mechanisms."

"I hate you all."

Dick grinned over his tea, then set it down quickly in favor of the food Alfred was bringing. For a few minutes, the kitchen was silent again except for the scraping of cutlery against porcelain as they dug into their dishes. Normally, Jason would have scowled at the maltreatment of Alfred's - Tim's and Barb's - silverware, but this time all he could think about was the hole in his stomach. He didn't remember food ever tasting this good. He didn't remember ever feeling so famished. Alfred handed him seconds and thirds without a word and Jason wolfed them down just as quietly. By the time he was done, Tim and Barb had long-since finished. It felt familiar. It felt good.

“So, speaking of dead things...” Jason cleared his throat. “What the fuck is the deal with Clayface? Why would he play-pretend being Joker?”

“Long story short...” Dick took another spoonful of his omelet and swallowed it almost instantly. “... Joker had Karlo play his body double in Arkham City. Bruce fought him and accidentally dumped him into a Lazarus pit. We can’t be sure, but apparently Clayface doesn’t even remember that he’s Clayface. He’s convinced he’s really Joker.”

And just like that, Jason’s appetite was gone. “I should have punched the bastard.”

“Who?” Barbara finished took a quick gulp from her tea. “Basil or Bruce?”

“Both.” Jason picked at his empty plate with new-found disdain. Whatever appetite he may still have harbored was gone. “I can’t be the only one who thinks it’s just _grand_ that we now have an unkillable, most likely pit madness suffering Joker wannabe running around out there?”

“If it helps,” Tim said, “just think of it as endless opportunities to kill the son of a gun.”

The table fell quiet. Tim shrugged and went to fetch himself another coffee. Now that Jason thought about it, everyone had been eating fast, almost desperately. It reminded him of the few times he had had to take care of Bruce. Worry was a powerful hunger stimulant. Tim sighed. “What? It’s true. And Bruce won’t even be able to get mad at us.”

“See, this is why I married you,” Barbara grinned at Tim over her cup of tea, before turning to Jason. “Please do shoot him in the spine and give him my regards next time you see him.”

“Don’t forget to grab pictures,” Dick muttered as he finished his plate, before pouring himself a glass of water from the pitcher in the center of the table. "So, Jason..." Dick took a deep gulp. "Got any plans for more remodeling projects?"

 _We can help you every step along the way_ , Tim's voice echoed in his mind. Jason leaned back and closed his eyes. There were so many things... He pushed them back down using the same meditation techniques Bruce had taught him for patrol. He needed to focus. He needed to deal with whatever was most important and most urgent. Whatever he would regret the most.

"I'm sorry I've caused all of you so much grief," Jason finally blurted out. The minute dislike he had felt for his choice vanished almost instantly. Yes, it felt trite. Yes, it felt sappy. But this was undoubtedly the thing he would regret the most if left undone. He could feel it in his heart. "I'm grateful for everything you've done for me. And..."

 _Say it already, fucking coward. Bruce did it, for crying out loud! It can't be that fucking hard._ Jason swallowed hard.

"And I love you. All of you, even Bruce the fucking bastard."

"Tim, honey..." Barb rolled her eyes. "Who is this and what did you do with Jason?"

"Laugh it up, Barb," Tim lobbed back. "We love you, too, Jason, and for the record: we're glad you're still here with us. In every meaning of those words."

 _We are glad you are not dead_ , Jason thought to himself as Babs and Alfred nodded in agreement. _We are glad you decided to return to the manor._ He was halfway through formulating an adequate reply when Dick hugged him tightly.

"I swear I'll let go in a few seconds," Dick muttered into his shoulder and Jason scoffed.

"You had better. Fucking octopus."

It was half a joke, and judging from Dick's slight chuckle, he knew. As promised, he let go a few seconds later. Jason rolled his shoulders, then downed the rest of his tea. The list of people he had legitimately needed to apologize to had now gone down to zero. It felt amazing.

 _One_ , not-Robin corrected. _It's gone down to one. And no, it isn't Bruce._

Jason wanted to scowl at that. Bruce was about the only person in this weird-ass family who had screwed up more than Jason himself. He would have been surprised if his guilty conscience had been talking about him. Unfortunately, that meant he was out of options.

At least he was until his left flank started itching. Jason bristled.

"Fuck."

"Forgot something?" Tim asked half in jest and Jason shook his head.

"Someone."

 _Someone who is not here_ , Jason realized with dawning dread. Someone who did not know him nearly as well. Someone who had not even half as much incentive to forgive him. Someone he hadn't known how to talk to in the first place. He had been a fish out of water. Now he was a fish in the fucking desert.

"Alfie..." The old butler looked at him with reserved attention. Jason took a deep breath. "Say I wanted to apologize to someone whom I've said some rather unkind things to when I should have been thankful. And it's been a few weeks. Is there any way I'm getting around a face-to-face apology? Or a call?"

He wasn't ready for it. Jason knew. It was easier with Dick and Tim and Barb. They had learned to give him space. Even Dick. They respected his pace. He wasn't ready for unexpected counters. Just the thought turned his stomach into a knot.

Alfred sat back, sipped from his tea, and furrowed his brows.

"Have you considered the option of writing a good, old-fashioned letter of the pen and paper variety?"

"A letter?" _Of course_. Jason wanted to slap himself. It made sense. "Thank you, Alfred. Hey, Tim..."

"Bruce's old study," Tim replied quickly. He finished his own tea and shoved his empty dishes just a little closer to the center of the table. "First drawer on the right. Feel free to use as much of the good paper and ink as you need and one of the really fancy envelopes. I barely use them anyway."

Jason thanked him quickly, then wriggled out of his seat and hurried down the hall.

The study was facing east and the rising sun was bathing it in a clear, yellow light. It looked exactly like Bruce's had, except that all pictures of Bruce's parents had been replaced with pictures of Bruce himself and Alfred. Jason stopped in his tracks when he noticed and made a mental note to investigate later. As far as he knew, Tim's parents had been alive for the longest part of his life and their absence from this room - or any conversation he had ever had with Tim for that matter - was mildly concerning.

It was a question for another time though. Jason took a deep breath and cleared his mind as he sat down, opened the drawer, and removed the supplies.

The envelopes were definitely fancy. Strong, slightly beige-colored and completely nontransparent paper. The lines for the addresses and the stamp were drawn in fine gold and a golden rose decorated the self-adhesive flap. The actual writing paper matched the envelope and smelled almost like parchment, which made Jason wonder just how much of an understatement 'barely use them anyway' had been. The fountain pen was filled with ink in royal blue.

"Great. Now you just gotta _not_ fuck up the content and you will be fine, Todd," Jason muttered as he wrote the greeting in his best hand. He had had terrible hand-writing when Bruce had first taken him in. Thankfully, Alfred had quickly rectified that, and even though the burn scars on his palms made holding a pen just slightly uncomfortable, he was pleased to see that his muscles remembered.

Alfred had also taught him how to write proper apologies. And congratulations. And condolences. And thanks. Jason frowned as he recalled how woefully undereducated he had been in pretty much any and all standardized communication that went beyond the daily necessities of life and did not involve shouting.

Alfred had taught him, though, with sheer infinite patience and grace. He had taught him how to write the best, most sincere apologies in the history of sincere apologizing. Jason took a deep breath reached for a separate, less fancy sheet of paper, and started brainstorming everything he wanted to touch on.

This apology was going to be fucking perfect. There would be no more regrets.


	36. What Comes Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the demolition of his memorial grave, Jason is trying to take back his life one step at the time. He shouldn't have been surprised when things don't go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow... I was starting to think I was never going to finish this. Hallelujah.  
> I apologize for the long wait. Hope you guys enjoy this chapter :)
> 
> Google search of the day: wall painting dark colors
> 
> For status updates, writing trivia, fandom/fanfiction/writing related questions and occasional random ramblings, please visit my tumblr: http://lananiscorner.tumblr.com/

“You know... I have a distinct feeling like we’ve done this before.”

Jason raised an eyebrow as he turned the two jackets over in his hand. Chocolate brown leather. Expensive. High-quality. Lots of pockets and latches on the inside. One of them lined with merino wool. All he needed now were six dollars and twenty-five cents for the bus.

“If there is one thing I have learned in the many years since Master Bruce first started dressing like a bat to fight crime, it’s that one can never have too many spares.” Alfred took the lined jacket from him and waited until he had shrugged into the lighter one, then handed it back and helped him double up. Technically, it was too warm now for two jackets. Practically, he was better off with his hands empty. “If you were to share with us the details of your usual equipment, we could have provided you with spares of that as well.”

“Trust me,” Jason grimaced. “You don’t want to know.”

Jason doubted the specifics of just how many knives, rounds, and grenades he usually had on him at any given time would go over well with anyone. He was pretty damn sure the explosive charge and security protocols in his helmet wouldn’t either. He had been clutching the helmet like an over-protective mother hen since he had finished the letter.

“So...” Dick rocked back and forth on his heels slowly. “Are you going for the bus stop again? Because I’ve got my bike. I could give you a lift. If you want. You know—you don’t have to, it’s just an offer and—“

“Dick, shut up.” It came out angrier than he had intended. Jason sighed. “I won’t bite your head off for offering me a ride.”

“But you won’t take me up on it either,” Dick finished for him. Jason had to give him credit. He had kept the disappointment out of his voice and off his face. Tim looked like he was strangely proud of him for that. Barb had the tiniest smirk on her lips.

“Like fuck I won’t. You don’t get to tell me what to do.” The words were out of Jason’s mouth before he could stop them. “Get your fucking bike. We’re leaving.”

It took Dick a moment to process what had happened. Then, the change started, one muscle at a time. That also felt familiar and Jason tried to let the memories bubble up through the unattractive, murky gray sludge that was most of his mind. Usually, smiles came quick and easy to Dick Grayson, but it was the few times when it didn’t, when he could see the joy creep onto his face inch by inch that had convinced him Dick was not just some robot from Stepford, all those years ago. The memory was just as soothing now and he felt the muscles at the corners of his mouth twitch as he watched Dick disappear out the door, most likely heading to the garage.

“You sure you want to do that?” Barb sounded both mildly amused and mildly concerned. “You’re going to compromise one of your safe-houses.”

“It already is,” Jason replied with a shrug. Truth was, he hadn’t even decided where to go until now, but in hindsight the choice seemed obvious. “And it’s not my safe-house. It’s my apartment. You gave me the damn thing. It would be a shame to waste it.”

He gave a quick, only faintly awkward hug to Tim, then a longer, easier one to Alfred. Barbara muttered a quick thanks into his ear as he bent down to embrace her, then ushered him out the door just as Dick pulled up in the bike. The helmet he was wearing was segmented, and Jason grinned at the sliding mechanisms. Lucius had always known how to make anything that was manufactured for vigilantism applicable in innocent situations as well. Apparently he had taken a few pointers from Red Hood.

“So... where are we going?”

“Diamond District.” Jason put on his helmet, then climbed on the bike behind Dick. “You know the place.”

Dick nodded, waved to the others waiting in the doorway, and hit the gas. If he was surprised by Jason’s choice at all, he didn’t show it, and Jason was grateful for that. It was a beautiful morning best enjoyed in silence.

***

At high noon, the Diamond District was loud, crowded, and unseasonably hot from the sheer amount of cars and people bustling through the street.

Jason’s apartment was none of those things. The cold, stale air hit him in the face like a brick bundled up in a coat and he strode over to the living room window quickly, opening it wide, before heading to the kitchen and the bedroom to do the same. He opened all the curtains while he was at it and winced at the subtle, but definite, layer of dust that had settled on pretty much everything. This was going to take forever to clean.

“I have to say...” Dick zipped his jacket closed again. “I didn’t think inviting in the cold would be the first thing you’d do once you got here.”

“It’s either oxygen or warmth.” Jason shrugged. “And I’ve _really_ come to appreciate oxygen recently.”

“Shit!” Dick winced. “Jason, I’m sorry. Goddamn it, Grayson, use your freaking brain for a—“ Dick’s voice fell just as the corners of Jason’s mouth curved up slightly. “You total ass!” The tone was as gentle as the shove Dick gave him. “Don’t prank me like that! You know I’ve got a talent for putting my foot in my mouth!”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “I could go back to dressing up in super villain gear and shoving a gun in your face, if you prefer that.”

Dick sighed, the long and heavy sigh that apparently only parents and big brothers and sisters were capable of giving. Jason remembered that vaguely, too. Back then, it had been almost a race between him and Dick to see who could get that reaction from Bruce first. In the end, neither of them ever had.

“Do you want any help bringing the place back up to scratch?” Dick thumped his helmet softly against his thigh as he inspected the living room and Jason wanted to grimace. If even Dick could tell that the apartment needed a cleaning, then it really was bad. Then again, he could have expected it. He hadn’t been here in weeks. “I still owe you a cleaning for my apartment in Blüd.”

“You already paid me back for that when I moved in here.”

“I paid back the money,” Dick objected. “I’m talking all the rest, unless you’re saying I was so blacked out that day you actually managed to send someone else in there to do the cleaning _for_ you without waking me up.”

Jason made a noise that was somewhere between a snort and a chuckle. “I probably could have.” It shouldn’t be funny. In their line of work – heck, even without the work, even just considering the sheer, vast amounts of money attached to each of them – being as careless as Dick had been that night was a liability and a mistake. And yet, somehow, he couldn’t find it in himself to be angry this time. “It’s alright, Dick. I can take care of it myself.”

“Alright.” Dick took a deep breath. “Just remember you don’t have to. If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know.”

Dick gave him a quick pat on the shoulder. Jason nodded and muttered a short thanks, then turned to the nearly empty living room again. A year ago, when he had first gotten the apartment, he had called it functional minimalism. Now, the room looked cold and lonely. There was a fireplace, just like in the manor, but it was dead and black. There was a comfy enough couch, but no pillows and blankets to go with it. There were shelves, but they were empty. No pictures. No souvenirs. No keepsakes. Same for the walls. The manor was Tim’s and Barb’s. This apartment... it could have belonged to anyone.

“Dick!”

Jason caught him just as he was about to head out the front door. Dick closed the door slowly and turned around to him with a quizzical look. “Think of something?”

“I did actually.” Jason took a deep breath. There was no way to say this that would not be misunderstood by Dick. “If you really want to do me a favor, take your big-brothering to Tim for a while, okay?”

“Tim?” The laugh that escaped Dick’s lips was somewhere between incredulous and amused. “I hate to break this to you, Jason, but Tim is the sanest, most stable one of the three of us. He’s just fine.”

“Is he?” Jason took off his jackets and dropped them on the couch, leaned against the back rest, and rolled his shoulders. There was another weather change coming. He could feel it in his nerves. “When you guys lured me in here for my birthday, Tim seemed utterly confused about how this movie night thing in our little batfam works, so I’m guessing you never did movie night with him?”

Dick’s smile dissolved slowly. “No. We didn’t.”

“Did you guys ever go to the movies or to the arcade in the Bowery together?”

“No.”

“Monthly sparring sessions?”

Dick shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. When he finally spoke again, his voice was little more than a whisper. “I get your point, Jason. I really do.” To Dick’s credit, the guilt was written all over him, especially in the slumping of his shoulders and the somber look of his face. “Did I scale back on the bonding with Tim? Yes. But I had just _lost_ a brother, Jason, and I was in no condition to put myself through that again. I guess...” Dick shrugged. “I guess I just figured what with Tim having a healthy life outside of Robin, outside of the manor, he didn’t need as much support.”

“Did he though?” Jason raised an eyebrow. “Have a healthy life outside of the manor, I mean?” He gave Dick a second to think it over, then gestured at the empty walls. “Look at this place, Dick. I don’t have a single picture in here. When Bruce owned the manor, there were pictures of Thomas and Martha Wayne all over the place.”

“And now Tim and Barb have pictures of Bruce and Alfred there,” Dick concluded. “Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Sure,” Jason rolled his eyes. “But have you seen a single picture of Jack and Janet Drake in there? Has he ever even talked about them? About school? Friends at school? Hobbies, other than his obsessively unhealthy attachment to his cameras? Or anything from his supposedly healthy life outside of Robin? And don’t try to tell me he never did, just because he’s more on the quiet side in general. That’s not how this works.”

He let the words sink in one by one. It hurt watching Dick come to the slow realization of how many signs he had missed, but at least now he could do something about it.

“You’re right...” Dick sounded positively horrified. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice any of this any sooner.”

“It’s not your fault, Dick.”

“It _feels_ like my fault.”

“You missed some clues,” Jason admitted. “But Tim’s pretty damn good at acting like everything’s ok when it’s not. Doesn’t mean he should have to.”

Dick nodded and took a deep breath. “Well, there’s my new year’s resolution.”

“It’s March 3rd.”

Dick grinned. “Better late than never.”

 _Better late than never..._ Jason mulled the words over in his head as he escorted Dick out and shut the door. The apartment lay before him silent, empty, and cold once more. Back then, Barb had encouraged him to take it and make it his. He hadn’t bothered. It had seemed trivial. Useless.

“Better late than never.” _You're still alive and as long as you're still alive, it's not too late yet._

He started with the heaters, turning them up to full blast just as soon as he had closed the windows. He tore down all the curtains and threw them in the laundry immediately. Once washed, they would make for decent contributions to the Wayne Foundation Donations Store. He added the clothes from the hamper that had been there for weeks and started up the machine, then headed for the kitchen.

The dishes were in the sink, at least, but they were still dirty. Underneath, the porcelain was plain white. Jason scowled. It was a nice kitchen. It deserved more color. He filled up the dishwasher quickly and took it as a good omen that he had exactly one tab left in the cupboard.

 _The kitchen is going to be the easiest part_ , Jason realized as he started clearing out and wiping down the cupboards and fridge shelves one by one. Okay, maybe some of the food was past the expiry date, but that he could handle. He gave everything a quick glance and a sniff and ended up tossing away only one loaf of bread and a two cans of yoghurt. If it still looked good and smelled good, he could still eat it. The counters were done in two minutes; the floor was done in three.

The bathrooms were next, both the small guest bathroom and the larger one attached to his bedroom. The first aid cabinet was still a mess, evidence of his – and Tim’s – last dive into the cupboard to get supplies for the shrapnel wound in his shoulder. The spot itched at the memory. He took out the frustration that started to well up inside his gut on the bathtub and sink instead, scrubbing away with brushes and all purpose cleaner until both were spotless, before turning his attention to both toilets. By the time he was done, the sharp odor of bleach clung to every part of the room. It irritated the brand and made part of him want to cut the damn thing out again, or at least cover the mirrors with a towel, so he wouldn’t have to feel _and_ see it.

The other part had more than enough of hearing Joker’s fucking voice in his skull. Jason ripped the towels off their holders and threw them into the now empty hamper. He didn’t want fucking snow white fluff in his bathroom anyway.

The bed room was next and now that he actually looked at it for more than a minute, Jason wondered how he had ever managed to fall asleep in the fucking pastel color mess that was this bed. He got rid of the sheets quickly, then dug through the closet. Thankfully, most of what Barbara had put in there was black or red. That only left him with the carpet and he had just about started moving the closet when it occurred to him that maybe this was something to do later. He’d still have to paint the fucking walls. Paint over _this_ carpet he could totally live with.

“Paint...” Jason let the word roll off his tongue slowly, before hunting for some pen and paper. “Paint, paint, paint...” He eventually found some post-its and a pencil on the lower pane of the living room coffee table. How the hell he had managed to live here for months without having pencils and paper all over the place was a mystery to him. For now, it would be one more item on the list. He slipped back into the thin jacket, grabbed one of his burner phones and wallets from the hidden compartment in the closet, and headed out.

There were four hours and a half left until sunset. This was going to be a pain in the ass.

***

His first stop was his last safe-house, the one in Kingston. There was a good chance one of them would call and that meant he needed his phone. The second was the shopping mall just south of Robinson Park. It was one of those weird places that had all local brands, but wasn’t too expensive, and was all but deserted during the day, only to turn overcrowded once the clock struck five. Which meant that right now it was perfect.

He started at the ATM, grabbing as much cash as the machine would give him. The thought of how much crap the bills had been through – figuratively and quite possibly literally – was nauseating, but the thought of how easily trackable card transactions were was even worse. He glanced at the camera in the corner, then at the undercover shopping mall cop, who eyed him from a nearby restaurant table. He was tempted to start acting extra-suspicious just out of spite.

The newspaper and stationery store looked positively desolate in the harsh, slightly flickering neon lights fixed to its ceiling. It was neat and clean, yet somehow the light morphed the surroundings, twisting them into what could probably have served as the waiting room to one of the circles of hell. The clerk eyed him with the bland resignation of someone who clearly made too little money to put up with the sensory torture, much less with the average customer. Jason breezed through the aisles, scanning the shelves quickly for the familiar logos of the brands of papers, pens, and pencils that Alfred had always purchased, and dumped it all at the checkout less than a minute later. The entire place felt... wrong... The sooner he got out, the better. He rounded up the sum as he shoved his supplies into the backpack he had brought from Kingston, handed over his bills, and left without his change. The sooner the better.

If the newspaper shop had been hell’s waiting room, the home wares and deco store was heaven’s. Jason raised an eyebrow at the suspicious sparkle and shine of every inch of the floor and every surface of the merchandise. Clearly some poor employee had gone through the trouble of polishing everything to perfection before the big masses arrived. He headed straight for the curtains and went for the heaviest, most light-absorbent fabric he could find. He was tempted to unpack it right there and wrap it around the head of the store manager, who stalked him through the aisles with malcontent dripping from every pore of her face. He wasn’t quite sure whether it was his general look – several steps down on the social ladder from the usual clientele – or the fact that his shoes disgraced the immaculately polished floor that rubbed her the wrong way. Either way, Jason rolled his eyes, then forced himself to slow down in his shopping.

He ended up spending the better part of eight minutes evaluating the pros and cons of different curtains, even going so far as to look at the color options he was sure he was definitely NOT going to put on his windows. Bruce could keep his fucking fetish for blue, but the manager did not need to know that. He made sure to shift his weight from one foot to the other frequently, pacing up and down a few steps and dragging his heels across the floor to the disgusting sound of rubber scraping over tiles.

Jason waited until the manager finally racked up enough courage – and seething fury – to walk up to him, before going with the simple, dim gray curtains and the crimson ones with the Chinese-lattice-inspired patterns at the top. He had decided on both of them several minutes ago, of course, but if this hag thought she could make him feel unwelcome in the store, he was more than happy to make her burst a blood vessel or two. As a matter of fact, some jokes were worth telling twice. By the time he had _finally_ picked up matching towels and linens and marched off to the register, the air was bristling with hostility.

It had been absolutely worth it.

His last stop was the home depot. Jason flinched as he walked in the door. The first thing in his line of sight was a four-by-four feet advertisement for the home brand’s latest toolset. Pliers, hammer, nails, drill and all. Just his fucking luck. Jason gritted his teeth and started walking.

The store was a fucking labyrinth, of course, or maybe it just seemed like that. Then again, from what he understood, that was the page-one-of-the-manual design directive for every big store – set up everything so the customer had to walk through every aisle before getting to the check-out. The overhead lights were warmer than the neon in the stationery, yet they felt cooler. The fucking floor was tiled. If someone had been planning to set a mouse trap for him, then it had worked.

The shelves with the paint were in the far right corner of the store and Jason skimmed them quickly, while doing the calculations in his head. One-and-a-half gallons of red. Half a gallon of black. That was all he would need. Plus a paint roller. And then he could get the fuck out. He reached into the shelf, pulling out the most expensive cans he could find – wall paint was one of those cases where he had learnt quality really _did_ matter over quantity – and turned to leave, only to bump straight into a customer service rep.

“Hello, sir,” Daryl’s voice – at least that was the name written on his half-scratched off name plate – ping-ponged somewhere between professionally enthusiastic and subconsciously terrified. Jason’s attitude ping ponged between outwardly stoic and subconsciously murderous. “Is there anything I could help you with?”

It took him every ounce of willpower to resist rolling his eyes. He had been in the store for less than five fucking minutes. Who trained these fucking people to set upon their customers like starving wolves out for blood?

“No.” He decided on a neutral tone with a subtle, underlying growl, and the effect was almost immediate. He didn’t have any sensors on him, but he could all but feel Daryl’s pulse go through the roof. The hairs on his neck stood like soldiers on parade. “I’m on my way to the till.”

The kid had balls, Jason had to give him that. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t move out of the way. Instead, he eyed the paint cans in Jason’s hands with a critical squint, then forced that ridiculously fake salesman smile back onto his face.

“You picked a great day for shopping then, because any purchase of thirty dollars or more grants a fifteen percent discount on our special tool box—“

“I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR FUCKING TOOL BOX OFFER!”

He didn’t care about the possibility of an unwitting audience and this fucking conversation ending up on the web, either. Not right now. He didn’t care about the fucking money. For once, Jason couldn’t even find it in himself to care that this kid probably made not even half as much money as would be proper compensation for having to put up with screaming, raging customers. He didn’t care that he was raging or screaming, either. What he did care about, was that the uncomfortable tickling that had crawled through every other scar in his body since he had set foot into this damn place was now alight in bright pain.

“I DON’T GIVE A SINGLE FUCK ABOUT WHAT YOU SELL, OR WHAT QUOTAS YOU NEED TO FILL, OR IF YOUR ASS IS GONNA GET FIRED, IF YOU DON’T TRY TO SELL ME SHIT, BECAUSE RIGHT NOW THAT REALLY IS THE LEAST OF YOUR PROBLEMS!”

The more pressing problem was that Jason was tempted to just take a proper swing with that paint can in his left hand, to rake it right across Daryl’s face and knock out at least two of his teeth and shatter his jaw. He was tempted to pick one of those blow torches off the wall and set fire to the damn place and every fucking toolbox in it. He—

“Excuse me, sir...”

 _Oh god, no..._ Jason froze. He prayed that voice hadn’t belonged to whom he thought it did. He prayed this was just a bad dream.

From the end of the aisle, Barbara slowly rolled towards Daryl, calm as a purring kitten. For better or for worse, her eyes were firmly fixated on the service rep. If he hadn’t known better, Jason might have thought that she hadn’t even realized he was there. The look on her face was one of utter cluelessness and embarrassment, to match the tone of her voice. “I’m sorry, for interrupting, but my husband has a question about your tool box offer and I can’t see anyone else around. He’s in the power tools aisle.”

“Right away, ma’am!”

Daryl fled. It was the only appropriate way to describe his hasty reply and the way he all but tripped over his own two feet, rushing out of the aisle and down the room to where Jason assumed Tim was waiting in mild confusion. He couldn’t be bothered to look. Part of him wanted to toss the paint can at the kid’s head, still; the rest of him looked at Barbara in quiet dread. Was she angry now? Disappointed? He couldn’t tell. Her face was a blank mask, as Bruce had taught each of them, and it turned his gut into a ball of ice.

Barbara gave a short glance at the can in his hand and cocked her head slightly. “You know, now would be a good time to go pay for that paint.”

Jason nodded. Somehow, his feet started moving. He approached the register slowly, avoiding eye contact as best as he could and muttering only a short “for Daryl” as he handed over an additional hundred dollar bill after receiving his change. He accepted the double-bagged paint cans with a curt nod and shambled out of the store and to the nearest bench in the hallways. Jason discarded the bags quickly, then sank down onto the polished wood and pushed his face into his hands with a tired groan.

_Great fucking job, Todd, you walking disaster._

A minute passed, maybe two, and his breath thundered in his ear as he focused on pushing the memories back down again. He should have left and picked another store the moment he had seen the damn tool box ad. Joker agreed, and his laughter was like nails on a chalkboard, like hot iron on skin, in the back of his skull.

“Jason? Jason, do you hear me?”

 _Barbara..._ He clung to her voice like a limpet as he slowly lifted his head again. She didn’t sound angry. Judging from the look on her face, she wasn’t. If anything at all, Barb looked worried sick.

“Are you feeling a little better now, Jason?”

“Not really.” It was a brutally honest answer, but then again, that had always been his style. Bruce could keep his fucking play-pretend bull crap. “Not sure what I’m feeling right now.” But it sure as hell wasn’t ‘better’. It was teetering around the edge of ‘barely okay’ and he couldn’t remember the word for it. “I fucked up.”

“What happened back there wasn’t your fault.”

Jason had to snort at that. “Oh, yeah? You think PTSD is an excuse for being an asshole?”

“No.” Barbara shook her head slowly and leaned in just a little closer. He could see now that she really was right in front of him. “But it is an explanation, because that _is_ where the rage came from, and I hate to break it to you Jason, but when our brains decide to fuck up and sent out the adrenaline and the corticosteroids, there’s really not all that much that most of us can do about it.”

 _Bruce would disagree_ , Jason thought sourly, but he pushed the thought down as soon as it came up. He didn’t need that right now. He didn’t need to think about Bruce. He didn’t need a fucking PTSD episode. He didn’t need any of this bullshit.

“C’mon...” He looked up to find Barbara’s arms wide open and a tiny, pleasant smile on her face. It never ceased to surprise him how some people could look so utterly terrifying and fucked up when smiling, while others looked like they couldn’t hurt a fly. “Can I have a hug? Please?”

He doubted the hug was for her, but he gave in anyway. Barbara’s hands snuck around his back slowly, coming to rest light as a feather just below his shoulder blades. He let his head sink against her shoulder for a second and breathed in deeply. _Cherries._

“Have your cats tried to eat you yet?”

That made her laugh just a little. “Mitaine, yes. Alizée looked at her like she was out of her damn mind.” He had barely started pulling back when Barb withdrew her hands. They came to rest against his, cool as always, squeezing just a little. “Feeling better now?”

“Yeah.” He did. At least a little. With the fucking tiles and the tools far behind him, the memories somehow seemed more distant now. That was good. Before, they had used to stay for hours, if not days. “Thanks, Barb.”

“No problem.”

She sounded like she meant it. Jason glanced at the bags hanging from her wheel chair – the same home ware store he had gotten his curtains from – and raised an eyebrow. “I thought you’d already fixed and replaced everything that got damaged in the manor this January.”

“Huh?” Barbara followed his gaze and a smile hushed over her lips. “Oh, those are not for the manor. Tim and I are shopping for Dick’s new apartment.”

“Dick’s got a new apartment?”

“He will, when we’re done with it.”

Jason felt a grin tuck at the corners of his mouth. “You sure you picked the right career? You seem to dig this real estate agent thing.”

“Only when it’s for family.” Barbara grinned right back at him, then reached for her phone. “I was supposed to buy the paint. I should probably call Tim and let him know I didn’t get it.”

The sharp, little stab of guilt in his stomach was short-lived. Jason watched and listened as she started the call and instantly switched to loud speaker. Tim’s voice came out with a slight undercurrent of static and a heavy dose of exasperation.

“Barb. How’s it going? All good?”

“Better now,” Barbara said as diplomatically as she could. “You?”

There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. “Tell Jason he did the right thing. This freaking guy tried to talk the hair off my head.”

“You have hair on your head?” Jason lobbed back, and he could all but hear Tim’s eyes roll.

“Very funny. Seriously. He wouldn’t shut up until I agreed to buy one of the damn boxes. Did you get the paint?”

Barbara flinched. “Sorry, honey.”

“Barb...” Tim sighed. “You know I’m all but color-blind when it comes to this sorta thing, right?”

Jason swallowed hard. “Look for the brand ‘BM Prime’. They make the best interior paint on the market. Stuff lasts forever and covers in one stroke. Look for the color ‘Pha-Phtalo Blue’. It’s Dick’s favorite.”

A fact that had been an endless source of amusement when Dick had first told him, because back then Jason couldn’t have pronounced ‘Phtalo’ to save his life. Then again, with a brother named ‘Dick’, the opportunity for calling it ‘Phallic Blue’ had been too good to pass up anyway.

There was a pause at the other end of the line, then some shuffling, mild swearing, and more shuffling. Finally, Tim’s voice crawled through the speaker once more. “How much?”

“I don’t know,” Jason scoffed. “How big is that apartment you want to paint?”

“About two-thousand square feet with really high ceilings. But I’m not planning to paint every wall.”

“You’d better not.” Jason shook his head. Clearly Tim had no idea what the fuck he was doing. He was starting to wonder whether Barb did, either. Art had never been her strong suit, even though she enjoyed looking at it. “Take two gallons, then. Better too much than too little.”

Jason watched as Barb ended the call and pulled up the picture gallery on her phone. Knowing Dick – who might have been able to rock any color and style handed to him, but would have been lost actually putting something workable together _by himself_ – it wouldn’t matter much. He’d be fucking ecstatic no matter what Barb and Tim did with the place.

“This is how it looks right now.” Barbara handed him the phone with a short nod. “And the next few shots are the furniture we plan on putting in there.”

Jason studied the photos carefully. The loft was essentially a long rectangle with a ridiculously high ceiling and a huge living and dining room. That much was good. Dick was as much prone to just sleeping on the couch for the sheer feeling of sleeping in a shared space as he was likely to swing off the nearest chandeliers. The floor was vanilla-colored hardwood, which would help keep the rooms from becoming too crowded with the dark colors. The kitchen, bathrooms, and bed rooms were comparatively tiny, but then again, Dick had never cared much for cooking and was likely to leave the bathrooms a mess anyways. He proceeded to the furniture pictures and shot Barb a quick look.

“Dark blue bed?”

“Egyptian blue for his room,” Barb confirmed, “ivory white for the guest room. Same as the couch.”

“No full wall paint in the master bedroom then,” Jason nodded. It was doable, even if Dick’s birthday was only a little more than two weeks from now, but it would require finesse. And they only had one shot. Painting over dark paint was absolutely _not_ fun. He handed the phone back as he made the calculations in his head. “We’re gonna have to paint the book shelves, too. Any furniture that’s attached to the wall, really. It will keep the room from looking cluttered.”

Barbara chuckled in quiet amusement. “We? I mean, don’t get me wrong, Jason, any help you wanna provide in this is greatly appreciated.”

“But you weren’t exactly expecting me to volunteer to help you figure out this interior design mess,” Jason finished for her. He wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t been planning for this, either. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t entirely sure how he had ended up playing painting advisor, but here he was. Jason shrugged. “I’m gonna be a horrible, but honest, brother and say that I completely forgot it was Dick’s birthday again soon. Might as well pitch in here and save myself the trouble of having to get something separate for him.”

“So... you’re gonna help us paint the loft?”

“No.” Jason frowned. “ _I_ _am_ going to paint the damn loft. Too many cooks and all that.”

Barbara smiled and if Jason wasn’t completely mistaken, there was an element of relief to it. She put the phone back into the pocket it had come from and retrieved a shiny new key ring instead. “Tim and I were about to head over there right now, to store the paint and stock the kitchen, but I’m guessing that’s a little short-notice, huh?”

“Yeah...” Jason mulled the thought over in his head. There were only three things he wanted right now: a long, hot shower, comfort food, and a solid night of thug-bashing. Barbara nodded, removed one of the two sets of keys from the ring, and handed him to him.

“Whenever you feel up to it. The furniture is going in on the 17th.”

 _Exactly two weeks to go_. Jason nodded, added the keys to his own chain, and got up slowly. Further down the hall, Tim was slowly emerging from the store, two heavy bags of supplies in his hands. Now was a good time to leave. He wasn’t up for a game of twenty-questions.

“Jason...” Barbara gestured him to bend down and pulled him into a short hug the instant he complied. “Thank you. For all of this.”

“Thank _you_ for keeping me from bludgeoning a sales rep to death with a paint can,” Jason grinned half-heartedly as he pulled away. He still wanted to punch the guy. With a quick sigh, Jason shouldered his backpack again, grabbed his bags, and made his way towards the exit.

Hot shower. Comfort food. And _definitely_ thug-bashing.


	37. Lighting The Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason's initial push to reclaim his life comes to a grinding halt as old trauma and bad weather combine to make his life hell. Thankfully, help is on the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god... this was supposed to be the last regular chapter of IWGA. Then I hit 7k and I still wasn't done with half of what I wanted to write. So here we go. Hopefully penultimate normal chapter. Enjoy. (It is 6am here and I have barely proof-read this.)
> 
> Google search of the day: Princeton university application

He could still hear him laughing. He was still in his head. In the darkness all around him, Jason could still see the clown’s blood red lips, laughing and laughing and laughing at the pain that speared through his ankle.

It was only a nightmare. It was not real. Not anymore. Jason knew that much.

It didn’t help.

“Wake up, goddamn it!” The words rolled off his tongue slowly and filled with anger. He was furious. At his own brain, specifically. He had already called the bluff. He knew it was a dream, so why the fuck could he not wake up?

The crowbar came down again. This time, it buried deep into his back. The force of it pushed him into the ground, through the floor, and out the other side. For a moment, he felt as if he was falling from the top of Wayne Tower. Without a grappling gun. The impact was softer than expected, but it knocked the breath out of him nonetheless and sent the wound in his back howling in pain. The shock reverberated through his bones, from his shoulders to his toes, and set off little flares in his right ankle along the way.

The next thing to finally react were his eyes and what they saw was both a blessing and a curse. No tiles. He was not in Arkham – _of course not, that was years ago, get a grip, you idiot_ – but in his apartment in the Diamond District. It didn’t look like his apartment, though. It looked like a box. Like an over-sized, sterile white coffin. It was warm – the temperature difference between the sweat and tears on his face and his skin told him that much – but it didn’t look warm. It looked cold, dead, and empty, and his ears confirmed what his eyes saw. It was silent as a grave.

The rest of his body returned to awareness gradually, as usual. Jason hated it. Those damnable few seconds each morning, or whatever passed as ‘morning’ for people whose daily routines were as fucked up as the ones in his family, those seconds when ninety percent of his body still refused to work and only rose slowly from sleep, like some ancient computer system that took for-fucking-ever to boot up. In his childhood, he had called it the ‘pray you don’t get stabbed minute’. He didn’t think much more kindly of it now.

Eventually, it passed. Jason sighed in relief and sat up quickly, only to curse as every muscle in his body protested the movement. A quick glance out the curtain-free window confirmed the suspicion that had started to settle in his gut. It was not his muscles that were the problem here. It was the fucking nerve damage.

Outside of his apartment, the wind howled through the streets, dragging a barrage of ice and snow with it. Visibility was close to zero. On the ledge just outside the glass, the snow had packed up to a foot and a half high.

“Fuck these fucking weather changes!”

He sank back into the sheets slowly. He had been dreading that this would happen. He had felt the tingling in his shoulders and ankle days ago and he had known that it usually meant a big weather change was coming. He had hoped it wouldn’t hit him that hard again, yet here he was, doing his best to move as little as possible, while pointedly ignoring the uncomfortable stinging and pulling throughout his body.

It took him almost half an hour to muster the strength—no—the _energy_ to roll out of bed and shamble into the bathroom. Yes, it hurt, but there were things that needed to be taken care of. Hundreds of things, racing through his mind all at the same time like a hundred voices, incessantly asking questions, begging to be answered.

 _Curtains_ , the pragmatic side of him insisted. _You’re a sitting duck with the windows uncovered. And you bought the paint yesterday. Don’t let it rot._

 _You promised you’d take the old deco down to Goodwill_ , his guilty conscience chimed in. _You promised you’d paint Dick’s apartment. You still haven’t sent the letter either. And whatever happened to ‘going to Princeton’? Whatever happened to finding a job? Or tracking down Karlo? Or Nigma? Good god, look at you! You can barely keep your own fridge stocked!_

“Shut up!” Jason grabbed the sink with both hands, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Priorities. He needed to set priorities.

 _In that case, might I suggest food and basic self-care?_ Jason could just picture Alfred’s slightly disapproving sneer. On the bright side, it shut the rest of the voices in his head right the fuck up. For now that was good enough.

“Basic self-care...” He reached for the toothbrush in the mirror cabinet and went through the motions one at a time. Brush teeth. Take a shower. Get some food. He could do that. It was a pathetic goal for the day, but it was better than the Arkham Knight’s uncompromising, brutal self-loathing that had gotten him out of bed during so many days with the militia. It had always worked of course. It had gotten him through the day. And the one after that. And the one after _that_. But in the end, when he had finally had the time, the chance, to just sit down and relax for an hour, it had all come crashing down on him, like a giant house of cards, burying him under a mountain of ignored trauma with years worth of interest.

He was not doing that again.

***

By the time he was done with breakfast, the sky was already going dark again. Part of him was grateful that he hadn’t bothered to look at the clock after getting up. He had no fucking idea how long it had taken him to complete what other people would call a simple morning routine. He was only happy that it was finally over. Jason sank into the couch with a deep sigh and glanced around the room.

The letter was still on the coffee table. The shopping bags were still by the window. The empty bags that he had prepped before putting the old sheets and linens in the dryer pre-patrol were still waiting by the door. The windows still lacked curtains. He wanted to walk over, grab the drapery from the shopping bags and get to work, but he couldn’t shake the voice that told him he’d put the cart before the horse.

 _Priorities, Robin_ , Bruce’s voice growled in the back of his head. _Do it wrong and you have to do it twice. Get it right the first time._

“Shut the fuck up, jack-ass,” Jason muttered back into the fading light of his apartment. He hated that it was Bruce’s voice that had to chime in now of all times. He hated even more that it was right. If he put the curtains up now and painted tomorrow, he’d get paint on the curtains. If he painted now, he’d see fuck-all in the darkness. “And fuck today.”

He continued muttering curses, slipping between English and Spanish and even some of the truly colorful Italian he had picked up in Rome all those years ago, as he dragged himself off the couch and over to the dryer. Folding the towels and linens was wreaking havoc on his damaged shoulders, but the trivial familiarity and simplicity of the movements was soothing in its own ways. The residual warmth that still clung to the sheets helped, too, and bolstered his resolve to paint the damn walls tomorrow, so he could finally put on the new sheets and the new curtains.

The streets and Urbarail between the Diamond and Bleake were almost empty at this time of day and the weather drove off whatever brave souls had thought about venturing outside. Jason only hoped that double-bagging the sheets had been enough to ward off the snow.

He arrived at the Wayne Foundation community center near the canal half-frozen and covered in white from head to toe. He had barely set both feet into the place when one of the workers came rushing over, concern plastered all over her pale face. He shoved the bags into her hand before she could actually start to ask whether he was here to ‘buy’ or ‘sell’ and shook himself quickly to dislodge most of the snow.

His hat came off next and the warmth made his ears tingle. Somewhere in the back of the center, where the actual dormitories were, the loud laughter of a young boy pierced through the monotony of whatever pop song was droning from the speakers. Jason bristled.

He knew that voice. It had been a while since he had heard it, and he had certainly never heard him laugh, but he remembered.

“Sir?” The attendant raised an eyebrow at him. “Is everything ok?”

“Yeah,” Jason swallowed and forced his attention back to the matter at hand. The sheets and curtains he had donated were lying neatly folded and thankfully dry on the counter and the display on the register informed him that he was eligible for a total of sixty Wayne Foundation points. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

It was a white lie. He had never fully warmed up to the idea of making a pissing contest out of the misfortune of others, but Bruce had been right about one thing: the sheer, competitive nature of Gotham’s elite usually meant that they would always try to be the ones with the most of anything, including most of the prestigious Wayne Foundation points. He had grudgingly decided that he could live with that, if it meant that those rich fucks would actually send one of their servants to dump all their ‘old’ – read: worn once or twice and now out of season – clothes in Wayne Foundation stores instead of the garbage.

The laughter suddenly grew louder, closer, and Jason turned quickly, to examine the walls by the door. Apparently, someone else had also invested in fresh paint and they had done a damn fine job at it. About three feet off the ground, the warm chestnut brown that covered the lowest parts of the wall shifted smoothly into creamy white and blended with the rest of the wall. For fucking wall paint, the gradation was simply amazing. He waited until the boy’s voice had faded into the background again, before turning around once more.

“Do you have a Wayne Foundation account, sir?”

“No, and I don’t want one, either. I have a question, though.” He turned just enough to let her see the wall and pointed at it with his thumb. “Who did that and how? Wall paint doesn’t usually do gradients.”

“Oh, that would be Dominik!” The woman smiled at him. “He helped paint the shelter for homeless kids over on the mainland after he moved in, and when our colleagues over there sent us the pictures we just had to ask if he could help out here, too. I know,” she held up her hand almost immediately, “sounds like we’re exploiting the kid, but he loves painting. To him, this is like occupational therapy.”

“I’m sure it is.”

Jason grinned. So his ears hadn’t deceived him. He remembered Dominik. Shy, fearful Dominik, who could never look at Pete for more than ten seconds straight, who had been a walking meal ticket for the older, more dangerous kids on Tanner’s Road, a body waiting to be found in some ditch. Jason was glad he had accepted Pete’s last piece of advice.

“If you want to... he’s painting the lounge in the back right now. I’m sure he won’t mind if you—“

“No.” Jason shook his head. “No, thank you.” Pete was gone from Dominik’s life. It was better that way. Let the boy continue to paint in peace, free from the memories of the streets. “I’ll probably come back later this month. Drop off some more stuff. Dishes and the like.”

“We’ll be happy to take it.”

And I’ll be happy to be rid of it, Jason thought as he said goodbye and left the store. Perhaps the day hadn’t been a complete disaster, even if his shoulder and ankle were killing him.

***

The dreams of the crowbar returned. So did the sounds of the drill and the feeling of acid burning through his skin. Jason woke, ready to throw up, and ready to scratch the skin off his back, if only to get the feeling of the clown’s hands off of his skin.

The storm had continued through the night, crushing whatever fleeting ambitions he had had concerning patrol – a stupid idea in his current condition, anyways – and heaping another foot of snow onto the ledge outside his bedroom window. He forced himself back through his morning routine – a little faster this time, though he still felt like a zombie – and sat down in the living room with his laptop, his sketch pads, and a cup of hot tea when he was done.

The drawing was inspired by the intricate designs and patterns he had seen all throughout China Town, along Ranson Street and Wong Street, on his way back from the community center. The burn scars on his palms itched with the increased exercise, but it wasn’t bad enough to drown out the peace and calm the sheer, meticulous act of drawing gave him.

Cutting the geometrical pattern out of the paper without ruining the table was harder and he shredded two plastic bags in the process, but in the end, the glass remained untouched. Jason sighed in relief. Now he just had to get the damn things onto the wall and paint them.

He started next to the door, placing the first sheet right against the frame, to line up with the upper end of the door, and made sure to stick the remaining five stencils in a perfectly horizontal line next to it. Together, the six sheets barely reached the nearest wall, but he had already resigned himself to the fact that this would take a lot of reshuffling stencils.

The black paint stuck to the wall well enough and Jason was grateful for that. It made the last bit of the job a lot quicker, even if he did eventually use a paint brush, rather than a roller. His shoulders protested at the continued exercise, but Jason pushed the pain down. He had to get at least one room done today, so that he could put up the curtains tomorrow and sleep in a place that didn’t make him feel like a sitting duck. It had to be done. He was doing the right thing.

It took him the better part of two hours to finish the living room and another two to finish the bedroom. That one had been a little easier, if only because all he had needed to do was to move the desk and bed so he could slap the Venetian Red he had bought onto the two walls framing his bed. Together with the new sheets and curtains he had bought, and the new carpet he had yet to buy – Jason frowned as the sadistic little voice in the back of his head put yet another item on the list of ‘things you haven’t fucking done yet’ – together with all of it, the bed would all but disappear from sight. Perfect camouflage.

This had definitely been a good idea.

***

_This has been a terrible idea._

Jason groaned as he slid from another nightmare back into the realm of reality. He had planned to go on patrol this time, if only to escape the nauseating smell of wet paint that had permeated every inch of his apartment following his redecorating spree and the cold as he had left the windows cracked to let the heavy paint smell escape.

He had made it all the way to Mercy Bridge before the pain in his shoulders had threatened to cripple him for good. Robin – they had planned to trade info on their latest cases – had doubled down on that threat not even twenty seconds in. He had even pulled the Nightwing card. Jason had been fucking livid.

Now, he remembered having shouted something or another in Venezuelan Spanish that would have had Bruce seething in fury had he heard it, while grappling off the bridge and back the way he had come. Now, with a headache that felt like someone was trying to cleave his skull asunder, Jason wished he had taken his fucking chances with Dick.

He made it through his morning routine and all the way to the kitchen before his ankle gave out.

No patrol tonight. No more painting. Jason gritted his teeth as he all but dragged his sorry ass and his breakfast to the living room. He felt… drained… like he hadn’t felt in months and it left him wondering whether this was more than just the weather. He hoped not. He hoped it would get better. He still had an entire loft to paint within the next fourteen days. And his own kitchen and bathrooms. And he had curtains to put up. Bed sheets. Towels. Carpet. The fucking letter. Princeton… universities had application deadlines after all. Cases. Work.

“Fuck my life.” Jason grabbed the closest pillow and buried himself in the couch. _Tomorrow..._

***

Tomorrow became the day after. Or maybe not. He wasn’t entirely sure and for the first time in a long while, Jason was happy not to have any easily visible clocks in his apartment. He could boot up his laptop, of course, or hunt for his phone – he was sure he had ditched it _somewhere_ in the bedroom after the last time he came back from patrol, but perhaps it was better if he didn’t know. The snow had turned the daylight hours dark enough to pass for twilight and somewhere between the weather and his fucked up sleep patterns, he had lost track.

On the bright side, he had managed to close the windows and put up the curtains the last time he had woken up. Sometime before that – he had woken up and fallen back asleep a couple of times since his last patrol – he had actually managed to look up how to create gradient effects with wall paint. The fleeting feeling of victory and success he had gotten from that had gone straight out the window when he had looked up Princeton’s application requirements. As Hadley from the militia would have put it: all snafu. Situation normal – all fucked up. He had wondered why he had even bothered, before using his daily dose of ten minutes of energy to put on the new bed sheets he had bought and crawl into his little corner of camouflage.

The clown had barely begun talking when the distant sound of a jingle broke through the nightmare.

It wasn’t the Arkham Asylum announcement tune. He had heard that one in his dreams before, way back when Batman and Robin had still featured in them. Sometimes he would dream of being Robin again, walking into the Asylum side by side with Batman to lock up some nut job, only for Bruce to put Jason in the cell instead.

Those dreams had thankfully stopped and Jason was eternally grateful for that. Now he just had to figure out where the damn noise came from.

It was almost entirely pitch-black outside again and Jason cursed as followed the sound in the darkness of his apartment. It came from somewhere near the foot of the bed. Under the bed. He bent over, insulted his fucking shoulders for not cooperating again along the way, and dug around the fabric – thick wool and leather, so probably his jacket – before finally finding his phone. The screen shone too brightly in the darkness and he felt tempted to just throw the damn thing against the wall and put a bullet through it.

Then he recognized the jingle.

“Shit.” _Barbara._ This was going to be bad. Babs never called him without good reason. Jason wondered who had gotten themselves into a deathtrap this time – Dick, Tim, Bruce, or all of them – as he sank back against his pillows and accepted the call. “Barb...”

“Oh thank god!” The relief was palpable in her voice. In the background, someone called out softly only for Barbara to shush them. “Thank you for picking up, Jason. We were starting to get worried.”

“Worried?” Jason raised an eyebrow, then checked the screen. “I don’t see any other calls in my log. What did you do? Steal Dick’s phone?”

That prompted a short laugh, although the amusement was gone as quickly as it had come. “Believe it or not, Dick is capable of learning. Seriously, though, Jason, we haven’t heard from you in days. Haven’t seen you on patrol either, since Tim sent you home. I mean, I know you’re not the most social guy to begin with, but—“

“Wait,” Jason cut in before his brain would have a chance to tune out for whatever apology Barbara was about to bring up. “Did you just say ‘days’?”

“Yes.”

Jason groaned. This was going to suck. “This is gonna sound crazy but...” He felt silly just thinking it.

“It’s four in the morning on Thursday. 9th of March. 2017. Anno Domini. Planet Earth.”

“Fuck.” He had expected Tuesday. Possibly even Wednesday. But Thursday? Where the fuck had time gone? What the hell had he been doing with it?

 _Not even half the things you could have done_ , his guilty conscience kicked in. _Congratulations on wasting five days of your life._

“Jason, are you ok?”

“Of course.” The words had rolled off his tongue on automatic. This was a temporary setback. He’d be fine as soon as this fucking blizzard had passed. “It’s just the damn weather. Nerve damage. You know the story.”

“I do.” Barbara sighed. “I also know that you’re lying. To me and to yourself.” He wanted to argue. “And for the record: I’m not angry.”

“You’re not?” The snappy retort he had had ready died in his throat. He wondered if it would still work for the related moods of ‘disappointed’ and ‘annoyed’.

“Do you have any plans for the next three hours?”

“What?” He said it and he meant it. What kind of fucking question was that? “What’s the rush? Got a body to bury?”

“A bit of the opposite, actually,” Barbara lobbed back over a quiet chuckle. “Meet me at the Burnley subway in half an hour, please?”

 Jason sighed. “Jason or Red Hood?”

“Jason, please.”

She hung up before he could answer, which was probably smart. He had a thousand questions. _Why? Why now? Why me? What do I have to do to get you to back off? Etc. Etc._ Jason looked at the phone with just a tinge of disgust.

He could try to call back of course, but he doubt Barb would answer. He also doubted just... not showing up... would be a great idea. Barb could carry grudges forever. And if she wanted to meet in half an hour that meant Tim was driving her. Pissing off Robin was an even worse idea. And he had brought this upon himself.

Jason cursed at the phone and rolled out of bed slowly.

His ankle and shoulders still hurt, but at least he had finally reached the point where the pain was just... there... rather than being instantly shocking. His windows were almost completely covered in snow now. He forced himself through the morning routine – minus the breakfast, which he reminded his growling stomach he would have no time for – dug his keys, wallet and phone out of the mess of clothes at the foot of his bed, and headed out the door.

Outside of the apartment complex, the city had become a maze of light gray. Jason grimaced as he headed along the half-frozen walkways and south towards Burnley. The roads and sidewalks had been mostly cleared of snow, but that only meant that there was now a barrier of hard-packed, off-white snow and ice between them, not to mention a veritable snow hill in every front yard. And it was still snowing. He watched some of the flakes as they drifted lazily to the ground like little pieces of ash. Up on Crest Hill, snow was actually white. Here, in the middle of the city, it never had the chance.

It took him exactly twenty-eight minutes to get to the subway station. Barb was waiting, bundled up in the coziest-looking coat he had ever seen her in, pretending to read the Gotham Globe, while quietly tracking every pickpocket on the street so she could shoo them off the moment they got too close. Jason shook his head.

“Don’t tell me Tim just ditched you here and left.”

“Is it still ‘ditching’ if I specifically tell him to leave me?” Barb grinned over her newspaper, then folded it and stored it away neatly in the backpack hanging off her chair. “I’m glad you came, Jason. Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“Breakfast.” Barb turned her chair around and started rolling down the streets towards the GC Comms tower. Jason fell in just behind her.

“It’s four-thirty, Babs. Shouldn’t that be dinner for you?”

“Should be dinner for all of us,” Barb agreed, before taking a left. “Thankfully, the place we’re going for is 24/7.”

 _24/7 in Burnley_. Jason felt his feet freeze. “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“I’m not.” Barbara stopped, grinned, and waved for him to follow. He knew now where they were going. Another four blocks south. One block west. Down the alley. “I hope you skipped breakfast. Dinner. Food.”

Jason nodded and fell in behind her. The streets were almost empty at this time of day and the silence felt too good to ruin. As expected, Barbara took the fourth to the right, then one to the left.

The sign above the door was still glowing in all its turquoise, fluorescent glory, although the lettering had been changed. It looked more elegant now and there was a happy little fish dotting the ‘i’ in ‘Mako’s Sushi’. Something in the back of his mind clicked and suddenly Jason wanted to laugh.

“It was Thursday morning the first time we came here, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Barb actually sounded surprised. “Now that you mention it. Yes. Although I promise you I’m not hiding Robin and Batgirl costumes in my backpack.”

Barbara went in first, and for a moment Jason was sure he could see Batgirl’s ghost walking next to her, cowl and all, as she approached the counter and asked for all-you-can-eat for two. The chef nodded and a moment later a waitress had arrived to usher them both to their seats. It wasn’t their usual corner, but that was probably for the best. There were already enough similarities to their previous, in-cowl activities here to make his stomach turn. This was the kind of stuff that was liable to get people exposed and killed.

“You look like a cornered rabbit,” Barbara stated matter-of-fact as he sat down next to her and scanned the place quickly. They were alone, except for one guy in a GC Power jumper who had probably just finished a rotation at the comms tower and was half asleep.

“I kind of feel like it,” Jason finally admitted. “Explain to me why we are here?”

“Because I felt like having sushi with my little brother again.” Barbara shrugged and reached for the menu just as the waitress arrived with two glasses of water. Now that the liquid was in front of him, Jason could feel that his throat was dry as a desert, but his stomach churned at the thought of anything. “I think the last thing we had was spicy crab sushi, butter fish handrolls, yam-avocado rolls and the tropical rolls.”

“Now _you’re_ lying to _me_.” Jason reached for the glass and started sipping slowly. Perhaps if he kept it one little nib at a time, he would actually be able to keep it down. Barbara was clearly having no such thoughts as she started jotting down all of their favorite starters. Miso soup. Seaweed salad. Sweet potato tempura. Grilled mussels. She added the next sushi items on the list – tofu pocket sushi, avocado handrolls, crispy mango rolls and the special ‘roll in rolls’ – beneath the starters and sent the order down the sushi train. “I know you’re worried, Barb, but it’s just the damn weather. I’ll be fine as soon as my shoulders stop acting up.”

“I think it’s more than that,” Barbara objected, but there was no hostility, no confrontation in her voice. “I know you, Jason. I’ve seen you deal with weather like this before. Hell, I’ve seen you deal with worse before, but you know what’s never happened throughout all the crap you’ve been through? You losing track of what time or day it was. I’m worried, Jason. We all are.”

That of course was code for ‘it took Tim and me to keep Dick off your back and god knows what Alfred had to do to stop Bruce from prying into your business’. He had learned to read between the lines. Jason took another tentative sip from his water.

He could still try to lie. He could blame it on work. Say he had been chasing a really frustrating case that left him working overly long hours. He could just shout in her face and storm out of the restaurant, too, although chances were he’d have at least one angry bird perched on his window sill the moment he got back to his apartment.

“It’s stupid.” There was some truth to the statement. It was not a lie. Jason hoped he’d get credit for that. “I’ll handle it.”

“Alone? Again?” Barbara shook her head. “How well has that ever worked out for any of us, Jason? How well has it worked out for you over the last five days?” The soup arrived on the train just as she finished and Barb reached for it quickly. She set one of the bowls down in front of him and tucked the spoon into his hand. “Itadakimasu.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“One: don’t be rude. Two: you are. You’re just lacking appetite, so why don’t you tell me what’s going on before our soup gets cold?”

Jason rolled his eyes. “You could just start without me.”

“I won’t.” She said it in the girliest flowers-in-my-hair voice Barbara could muster, but Jason could feel the steel underneath it all the same. “I refuse to eat until you tell me what’s really going on. And I ordered for two here. And they charge a dollar per unfinished piece. Do you want me to walk out of here with a hundred dollar tab?”

“If you can afford to buy Dick a fucking _loft_ for his birthday, a hundred dollar tab won’t make you starve,” Jason lobbed back at her.

“Jason...” Barbara sighed, then let whatever forcefulness had remained in her voice right out. “I really mean it. I’m worried about you. I want to help. Please?”

Jason poked at the tofu cubes in the soup. It smelled good. It looked good. Barb had dragged her ass out here to Burnley at five in the morning. Where was the harm?

“I’m just... tired.” _No, that’s not the right word._ “Drained. After Dick took me home, I had this entire plan laid out... what I was gonna do... where I was gonna go...” Suddenly, the words came bubbling up from his gut, together with the anger. He barely resisted the urge to throw the spoon away rather than just shoving it forcefully back into the bowl and run a hand through his hair. It suddenly occurred to him that he hadn’t even bothered to comb out the shaggy mop on his head and Jason sighed. He probably looked like he had been scraped fresh off the street. He certainly felt like it.

“I was gonna paint the walls – only did half of it. I was gonna take all my old stuff – linens, curtains, dishes – to a donation center – still have half of it. I was gonna start painting Dick’s apartment – haven’t even set a foot in the place. The damn letter is still on my coffee table. And Princeton... I don’t wanna talk about Princeton.”

He really didn’t. It had been a long time since any of his dreams had been so thoroughly shattered and he didn’t want to go back there.

“It’s been five days and I’ve done fuck-all with them, Barb.”

“And then you wake up and you want to do more, but you’re so drained that you can’t, and then you feel even worse, and that makes you more tired, and you try to get some sleep, but you wake up worse, you do even less, and then the guilt starts kicking in real good. Right?” He side-eyed Barb and was not surprised to find her looking at him with frustration and worry plastered all over her face. “Jason, those are early warning signs of an onset of clinical depression. You need to dial back your expectations of yourself. And you really need some structure.”

“You think I’m stupid?” Jason growled back of her. “My ‘structure’ is patrol and exercise, neither one of which I’m any good for right now, because of this fucking weather! I told you: I. Will. Be. Fine.”

“But you are not fine _now_ ,” Barbara argued. “You said you only painted half your walls, right?” Barbara reached for the remaining starters that had just arrived on the sushi train, then grabbed another order sheet. He was about to point out the ridiculousness of going for a second round when they had barely even touched the first, when Barbara turned the sheet over and started a numerical list. “Which rooms are still missing?”

“The kitchen and the bathrooms.”

Barbara nodded, then started adding each room to a point on the list. “The stuff you wanted to donate – what’s missing?”

“The dishes.” Jason watched her put them next to the number 4. “Barb, what exactly are you doing?”

“Making a list.”

“I can see that.”

She rolled her eyes, then turned to him. “It’s a list for you, Jason. You don’t have to use it, although I’d like you to try. When you get home today, grab ten hours of sleep. Set your alarm on your phone. Get up when it rings and whatever you do – don’t go back to bed until you’ve crossed item 1 and ONLY item 1 of this list. Then do something nice with the rest of your day. Take a walk. Watch a movie. However long you can stay awake for. Then take another ten hours. Rinse, repeat. You can do this. One step at a time.”

Jason scoffed. “You make that sound like I’m a third-grader.”

“If you were a third-grader, you’d be Bruce’s problem and god help us all.”

That actually made him laugh. It was only a short burst, but it felt good. Jason felt a grin creep onto his face. “Like having a goat for a gardener.”

“Exactly.” Barbara mirrored the smirk, then raised her bowl. “Itadakimasu?”

Jason shook his head and reached for the miso soup once more. It had grown colder, but it was still warm enough. Hopefully. “Itadakimasu.”

It tasted good. Better than he remembered. More importantly, it lit a fire under his lazy stomach, forcing a growl out of his belly as his body remembered that it had been god knew how long since he had last eaten. He finished the soup quickly and reached for the grilled mussel, while Barbara grabbed the tempura and for a few minutes all was quiet between them. The list loomed ominously on the table, but Jason chose to ignore it. He wanted to have this moment.

“So...” She waited until he had finished his starters, before reaching for the pencil once more. “What’s the deal with Princeton?”

“It’s a pipe dream, how about that?”

He hoped that would be it. Thinking about it hurt. Of course, Barbara being Barbara was undeterred. She had probably heard that tone from Bruce a million times and ignored it just as often.

“I swear I should charge you guys for every word I have to pull out of you.” Barbara reached into her backpack and retrieved one of her tablets. Judging from the lack of protective casing, it was not one of the important ones. “Princeton, Princeton, Princeton...” Her fingers raced across the keyboard. “Application checklist, here we go!”

 _Yeah, here we go_. Jason downed his glass and wished it had been alcohol. He knew what was on that list. This was gonna hurt.

“‘The Coalition Application, Common Application or the Universal College Application’ – I know those forms. It’s gonna take you half an hour max, to fill those out.”

“Go on.” The waitress came over to refill his glass and he promptly used the opportunity to order sake.

“Princeton Supplement. What the hell?” More typing. “‘Please briefly elaborate on one of your extracurricular activities or work experiences that was particularly meaningful to you. Please tell us how you have spent the last two summers (or vacations between school years), including any jobs you have held. Your favorite book and author, website, recording, source of inspiration, movie, favorite line from a book or movie, two adjectives your friends would use to describe you, favorite keepsake or memento, favorite word’—wow...” Barb shook her head. “They really want everything and the kitchen sink, don’t they? ‘Write about a person, event or experience that helped you define one of your values or in some way changed how you approach the world... If you are interested in pursuing a Bachelor of Science in Engineering degree, please write a 300-500 word essay describing why you are interested in studying engineering, any experiences in or exposure to engineering you have had and how you think the programs in engineering offered at Princeton suit your particular interests.’ Jesus...”

The sake arrived just in time. Jason was grateful for that as he took his cup and downed it in one go. He glanced around the room quickly, then lowered his voice to just above a whisper.

“How about ‘I once led an army of paid mercenaries into an attack on Gotham City. I spent my last two summers preparing for an invasion and trying to hold a part-time job at Wayne Enterprises. My favorite book and author is Sun Tzu’s Art Of War, my favorite website would get this application flagged by the NSA. I don’t have a favorite recording. My source of inspiration is deep self-loathing and guilt. The two adjectives you’re looking for are ‘temperamental’ and ‘paranoid’, the most defining event in my life was getting branded by a mad clown after nine months of torture in an abandoned madhouse, and my interest in pursuing Engineering comes from having built an army of custom-designed drones and tanks which I used to try and take over Gotham, as outlined in answer number one.’” Jason snorted. “Yeah, that should go over well.”

Barbara gave a short laugh. “You know you don’t have to be one-hundred percent brutally honest in these, right? Now, let’s see... Application fee – not a problem. Transcript... I assume they mean your official high school transcript... ‘school report, guidance counselor letter and two teacher recommendations’.”

The rest of their first sushi order arrived on the train and Jason picked it up quickly, before turning to Barbara once more. “Do I need to remind you that I never went to high school?”

“I don’t know.” Barbara shrugged. “Did _you_ notice that there’s a section for home-schooled students?” She started tapping once more. “‘References - It's most helpful if your teacher and counselor references come from three different adults who can comment on your intellectual curiosity, academic preparation and promise, and extracurricular involvement.’ And I’m guessing preferably they should not be your parents. ‘If you aren't able to provide a traditional transcript of course grades, include an outline of your high school curriculum. Many home schooled students also send us a reading list. If you have taken any courses at a school, college, online or by correspondence, please be sure to have official transcripts sent to the Undergraduate Admission Office.’”

“That doesn’t change the fact that I never took any high school level classes.”

“Jason...” Barbara reached for her avocado handroll and took two big bites, then looked him straight in the eyes. “According to the website, applications are due by January 1st. It’s March now, so come hell or high water, no matter what miracles may happen – you are definitely not starting at Princeton this year, which means you have more than nine months left to get all of this. Yeah, you won’t have full four years to provide transcripts for, but we both know how quickly you learn. You can do in six months what most normal students can do in two years and _you will ace_ your GED, I can tell you that already.”

“GED ain’t on the application list,” Jason argued as he took a bite out of the tofu sushi.

“No, but it says right here ‘SAT with Essay or ACT with Writing and two SAT subject tests recommended’. You can’t take the SAT’s outside of standard high school if you don’t have a GED.”

“Great...” he wanted to snap the fucking chopsticks. “More hurdles! Just what I need.”

“I’d hardly call the GED a hurdle,” Barbara scoffed. “You haven’t seen those tests. They are insultingly simple.”

“Really?”

“Really.” A sly smirk slipped onto Barbara’s lips. “Hey, how about this: I’ll hack the American Council On Education for you and get you last year’s GED tests for Gotham right now. Then you can breeze through them while we’re having sushi.”

Jason blinked. He looked around once more, just to make sure that – yes – they really were alone now in the restaurant. “Barb, are you insane?”

“What?” Barbara shrugged. “It’s gonna take me all of two minutes. You get to feel good about your own intellectual superiority while having good food and I’ll have some time to figure out how to best get you through all this other academic crap you have to provide. It’s gonna be fun.”

It did actually sound a little bit like fun. Jason shrugged, which seemed to be good enough for Barbara, judging from her furious tapping, then downed the rest of the sake. He realized he should have probably asked Barb if she wanted any, just as the last gulp ran down his throat, but she seemed to be lost enough in her own research. The sushi rolls were as good as he remembered them being, although he seriously wondered whose fucking idea it had been to put cream cheese in a sushi roll.

True to her word, Barbara handed him the tablet only two minutes later.

“There you go. One of the three GED tests in circulation in Gotham last year. They are meant to take seven hours. Let’s see how long it takes you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He watched as Barbara reached for another order sheet and started jotting down all his favorites that they had identified when he was still Robin – more seaweed salad and baked mussels, all four kinds of sushi pizza on the menu, custard buns, barbequed eel everything, a dynamite roll, and even the dreaded popcorn chicken – before reaching for her own food. Then, Jason got to work. He opened the first question from the math test and nearly spit out the sip of water he had taken.

“’Express 45,084,948 in scientific notation.’ Is this a joke?”

“Nope.” Barb had never sounded happier. “Go on. I told you it’s insultingly easy.”

It really was. Jason felt his brows furrow deeper and deeper with every question. Eighteen classes with thirty students each to be reduced to twenty-eight students - how many more classes? Calculating averages out of three separate miles per hour? Finding the opposite of a point in a coordinate system? Expressing kilometers in centimeters?

 _I built tanks and drones and military weaponry. From scratch._ He really did feel insulted. _I cracked multilayer-encryption when I was fourteen-years-old._

He wondered if there was any way to still fit _that_ into his academic transcripts.

The language test was even more insulting. Identifying key themes in five paragraphs of text? He had read The Art Of War, Shakespeare’s Complete Works, and everything ever written by Nietzsche before he had turned sixteen. Analyzing a Code of Conduct for major themes and individual procedures? He had written the entire goddamn documentation for the militia by himself. Identifying grammar, spelling, and syntax issues, and writing an essay? Those had stopped being problematic after his first six months in the manor. Alfred would weep, if he could see these questions. Jason breezed through them while munching on the pieces of sushi Babs had ordered for him as they came in. Somewhere between the spelling issues and the essay, whatever fatigue had lingered inside him vanished.

The science section made him want to smack whoever came up with it. Was ‘air’ a compound, mixture, or an alloy? The Johnsons have three children, all boys. Their fourth child is a girl. Why did this change occur? ... With answer 1) being ‘The conception classes taken by the parents.’ Is Pluto still a planet? Somewhere around the tenth question of the set, Jason found himself face-palming before digging into the sushi pizzas. He wanted to cry.

The social studies test was the hardest, although Jason knew why. It had been a long, looooong time since he had given anything resembling a single fuck about politics. Okay. So he needed ninety seconds per question instead of thirty. Jason shrugged, eradicated the rest of his barbeque eel sushi and handed the tablet back to Barbara.

“Done.”

Barbara tapped her phone, then traded it for the tablet. “One hour and fifty-two minutes. Told you...”

The dynamite roll was last. Jason let the spiced salmon sizzle on his tongue as he swiped through the tabs on the phone screen in front of him. “Official Gotham City high school curriculum... GCU undergraduate degrees—What do you want those for?”

“You can work through all the high school material you want,” Barb argued as she finished her glass of water, “but that won’t change the fact that they want recommendations from three different adults. The easiest way you are going to get that is if you enroll in an undergraduate degree at GCU. Applications close in August. That will give you enough time to get your GED, your SATs, and if you pick the right course, you might even be able to fulfill some of your first-year math requirements. Think of it as an opportunity – you can study whatever you want without the pressure of actually having to finish it. Just pick something you like. Anything.”

“Anything, huh...” Jason picked up a fresh order sheet and turned the pencil over and over in his hand. There had been so many things that he had wanted to study when he had been living at the manor. He tried to recall the list, but most of it was lost in the gray mush of his battered brain. Only one thing stood out clearly. “Arkham Asylum.” Barb raised an eyebrow in alarm and Jason moved on quickly. “When I came to the manor and Bruce first gave me access to the library, I read up on Arkham Asylum. I had heard so much about the place, seen lots of pictures too. I loved the architecture. I ended up drawing the entire thing from every angle I could find. Sometimes when we came back from the Asylum, I would draw little details I had noticed. Bruce always looked at me like I was half-mad.”

“Well...” Barb gave a slight smile. “Most teenagers aren’t obsessed with creepy, nineteenth century madhouses.”

“I just liked the architecture.” Jason shrugged. “I guess I could study that. Architecture.” He felt a grin creep onto his lips. “Betcha I can get better angles of every gargoyle in this city than any other student.”

Barbara laughed, the loud and clear laugh of honest joy and amusement. It was just a little contagious and the timely arrival of the dessert – every single dessert on the menu – certainly helped. The deep-fried sesame balls were his favorite. The red bean paste inside was to die for.

“So, I looked up GED exam dates in Gotham, by the way,” Barbara dug into her tiramisu, then swiped to the last tab on her phone. “Next available test is in the GED test center in Bristol township. Look at the date.”

Jason glanced at the phone and nearly choked on his food. “This is a joke, right?”

“It’s not. You ready?”

“Make it so...” The application form was already open. Jason dug the credit card out of his wallet, filled in the necessary details and hit ‘sent application’. _March 21 st. Dickie’s birthday. Let it be a sign!_

“Great!” Barbara took the phone from him once more and tipped the tablet in his direction. On screen, the test result read ninety-eight percent. “Before you ask, the missing two percent are your essay, although I’m sure it’s fine. You should be proud of yourself, Jason. I’ll forward you the curriculum and the undergraduate degree list. You can do this.”

“It’s still a lot to do...” He glanced at the pen and paper list Barb had prepared for him earlier. How exactly was he supposed to go from ‘find the energy to paint one room’ to ‘breeze through four years of material in nine months’?

Barbara must have read his mind. “You can do it, Jason. If anyone can, it’s you. You just need someone to get you into gear on the days when you don’t have the initial spark you get going.”

“Like you just did today?” Suddenly, it was painfully obvious that this was all this exercise had been – dragging him out of the metaphorical muck his brain had stuck him into and forcing him to do something. “I think you all have better things to do then looking after me on a daily basis.”

“Then how about you look after someone else on a daily basis?” Barbara reached for the spoon and her ice cream. “I’ve been talking to Tim. We don’t usually ‘loan’ our cats to people, but Mitaine really liked you. I think a two-year-old kitten would do wonders in getting you out of bed on the days you can’t do it yourself.”

“I’m sure she would.” Barbara was right in so far as Mitaine really did like him. Then again, she was Barbara’s cat and as much as Tim’s cat pretended to hate everyone around her, he was sure she would miss her feline friend. Or try to run her out of the house when she came back. Maybe both. “Not too comfortable with the idea, though.”

“You could foster one from a shelter, if you want.” Barbara shrugged. “There are about thirty-thousands cats and dogs coming into Gotham City shelters every year and more than ninety percent of them are killed if they are not adopted by the end of the month. Hell,” Barb took a bite from the crème caramel, “getting a dog would probably be even better than getting a cat. It would force you to leave your apartment.”

Jason nearly swallowed his spoon. “Barb. You’re a genius.”


	38. Dog Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason takes Barbara's advice to get rid of his depressive patterns, slowly working his way back to a healthy schedule. What madness possessed him to add a puppy to the mix, though, he might never know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it folks. The last regular chapter of IWGA. After that, there'll be an epilogue and then we're DONE.  
> Trigger warnings: cuteness overload from puppy, some nightmares, some past trauma, more puppy, all the puppy, fluffy puppy, did I mention there's a puppy?
> 
> Also, happy Year Of The Dog! #GiveJasonADog2018!
> 
> Music tracks for this chapter: everything from The Cranberries and Florence and the Machine's "Dog Days"  
> Google search of the day: puppy house training.
> 
> For status updates, writing trivia, fandom/fanfiction/writing related questions and occasional random ramblings, please visit my tumblr: http://lananiscorner.tumblr.com/

It started with the ticking bomb. Jason remembered that game, although it didn’t usually haunt his nightmares. Sure, back when he had still thought Batman was going to come and save him, the sight of the red letters counting down and down and down, always down, had been terrifying. He hadn’t seen his _entire_ life flash in front of his eyes, but a chunk of it at least. The good parts. The manor. Alfred, Bruce, Dick, Barb. The few rare good memories he had had of Park Row. Then the counter had reached zero.

The bomb had not exploded. Jason had not died. Joker had laughed. The games had continued.

At least that is how it had happened in real life. This was a dream, though, and as the numbers got smaller, the beeping got louder, morphed into something different. He was down to minus twenty seconds when he finally realized that it was the alarm on his phone that had made the noise.

Jason cursed, switched off the annoying sound, and rolled over.

The room still smelled faintly of paint, but at least he had been able to put the curtains on and turn up the heating again. It was warm and just pleasantly dark enough to make going back to sleep a tempting idea.

 _“When you get home today, grab ten hours of sleep. Set your alarm on your phone. Get up when it rings and whatever you do – don’t go back to bed until you’ve crossed item 1 and ONLY item 1 of this list,”_ Barb’s voice echoed in his skull. Jason sighed, picked up the re-purposed order sheet from where it had been stuck underneath his phone and glanced at the list.

  1. _paint kitchen_



_Paint the kitchen and only the kitchen._ Jason scowled at the tempting half-light coming in on the edge of the curtains. _Only the kitchen._ He could do that. It was only two walls of solid red paint up to the same height as the counters. Piece of cake.

The blizzard had not passed yet, of course, and Jason cursed as he dragged himself through his usual morning routine. The pain from the nerve damage always dulled eventually, or at least became less pronounced in his brain, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t spoil the first hour of his morning. Or afternoon. He wasn’t entirely sure what time it was and he didn’t really care either. Jason forced down his breakfast and set to work.

Compared to the living room and the bed room, the kitchen was a breeze. Only two hours later, Jason sighed in relief as he finished the last strokes of paint on the wall separating the living room and the kitchen, put the table and chairs back in place, and ripped off the masking tape. The can of red paint was almost empty, practically begging him to take it out into the trash. It was as good an excuse to get out of the house as any.

There was only one thing he needed to do first.

Barbara had forwarded the high school reading list, as promised. He double-checked, just to be sure, but he would have been surprised if Gotham’s Central Library would not have at least one issue of each text book. He started with maths, physics, and chemistry, if only because those would come to him the easiest, noting the shelf numbers, before slipping into his jacket and boots and heading out.

The streets looked no better than they had last night, when he had met with Barbara. The snow was piled high and more was falling still. It only enhanced the general aura of belligerence that clung to pretty much every other person walking Gotham’s streets and Jason was not surprised that he had kicked four muggers into the nearest wall by the time he reached the Urbarail station.

Gotham really did bring out the worst in people. And train cars packed to the brink were not helping. Jason put in his earphones and skipped to Weird Al’s ‘Another One Rides The Bus’. It was the most situation-appropriate soundtrack he had ever heard.

***

The second day was no better. This time, the alarm had emerged slowly from the sound of a spinning drill and his own screams. It added an annoying itching in his feet and calves to the long list of aches the blizzard had brought.

The list didn’t specify which bathroom he was supposed to paint today and so Jason went for the easier choice. The only thing that needed painting in his ensuite bathroom were the walls that were part plaster, part tiles. He had been waiting for a chance to stop that fucking tile pattern from spreading all over the room since he had first moved in. A solid foot of black paint from floor to ceiling was likely to do the trick. Once he was done, Jason grabbed the math books he had borrowed from the library and sank into the couch. As he leafed through the dusty pages with their coffee and coke stains, Jason couldn’t help but wonder what was more insulting: the academic skill level he was subjecting himself to (he had built entire fucking tanks, he knew how to solve for x, thank you very much) or the amount of crap he had had to go through at the library just to make the attendant understand that, yes, there already was a Jason Peter Todd in their system, yes, that was him, and no, he no longer had that old card because _the entire house had gone up in flames_.

He also made a mental note to punch Bruce in the face the next time he’d see him. As it turned out, buying the library off with a donation of all new editions rather than returning the by then long overdue books of his departed son did _not_ remove the ‘Repeated TOS Violations’ mark from said son’s account.

***

The third day finally brought some improvement. Jason was halfway through his morning routine (and the daily exorcism of the memories his mind that dragged out of his skull) before he noticed, but for the first time in more than a week, his ankles were not entirely on fire. It was a blessing, if he had ever had one, and Jason rewarded the cosmic miracle by finally finishing the paint job. Just because the shower in the guest bathroom had panels separating the tiles from the wall did not mean that the walls couldn’t use a foot of paint right above the floor.

He browsed through the physics text books over lunch and kept going when he found that he still wasn’t tired. The chemistry text books took a little longer to process. As in, about an hour longer. Jason frowned as he double-bagged them together with the maths and physics books. He really needed to get something that wasn’t pure logic. Perhaps he should get started on the English literature canon. He doubted he could skip through Jane Austen and Ernest Hemmingway.

Outside of his apartment, the blizzard was still raging, the Urbarail was still crowded, but it was only a matter of time. The weather would get better, if not tonight, then tomorrow. Jason could feel it in his bones. Literally.

The library was unusually busy this time around, especially since ninety percent of the visitors seemed to be children. From what he could gather from the chatter, it was some kind of charity event for children from low-income households or worse – free access to the library for one day, free snacks, and no charges for getting a card. It was sponsored by the Wayne Foundation, of course, and Jason rolled his eyes as he pushed through the mass of tiny humans to the nearly abandoned section with the classics. He started with Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy, which seemed appropriate given the current state of the world around him, and worked his way upwards through A, B, and C from there.

And, oh, what luck – he got the same attendant as before as he went to trade his barely borrowed science reading for the classics.

“Math is hard, huh?”

“Math is too fucking easy.” ‘You presumptuous old hag’ was implied, but Jason managed to swallow the words just before they rolled off his tongue. Almost two years of manners class with Alfred had to have been worth something. “If I were returning them because they were too hard, I’d be fucking crying right now. You see any tears on this face?”

The attendant shook her head and muttered a quick ‘no, sir’, but did not look up. Jason wasn’t surprised. Most people had a hard time looking at his face, what with all the scars. It was only on rare times like these when it actually came in handy.

The scanner beeped in perpetual monotony as the attendant scanned his items – first the returns, then his card, then the new batch. He drowned it out and focused on the few snippets he could catch from the children around him. There was supposed to be a reading later, of a chapter from the first Harry Potter book, as well as a tombola where five lucky children could win free books, and a cup of tea and sandwiches for everyone. It was a weird choice, given the age of the crowd – cookies and hot chocolate would have been more reasonable – but then again, it was the healthier choice.

It was the sudden change in speed and modulation of the beeps that brought his attention back to the matter at hand. Apparently something was wrong with his card. Of course it was. Jason watched as another librarian stepped up, a woman in her early fifties with hair that was half gray, half blond and dressed as if she were headed for the opera, and punched in a few codes. She took the card, swiped it again, then froze all of a sudden. Her gaze teetered between him and the card for a few seconds, before she bagged the books and handed them back to him, together with the library card, all the while thanking him a dozen times for supporting the library.

Some people were just weird.

On his way out of the library, Jason finally caught a look at one of the advertisements for the event that had caused the library to be so overrun and the shoe dropped at last. Beneath the Wayne Foundation logo, the names of the event creators were written in fine, blue letters.

_Bruce Wayne. Jason Todd._

***

The weather did get better, just as he had assumed. Jason watched through the nearly covered window in his living room as the snowfall that had gone from ‘insane’ to ‘tolerable’ throughout the night finally came to a full stop. It was still too cold for the snow to melt, of course, but there were worse things. Jason took comfort in the fact that it wasn’t going to get worse for now and that he wouldn’t have to double-bag the dishes he was taking to the Wayne Foundation Community Center.

His phone lit up just as he finished the breakfast. Jason braced himself for the worst and was pleasantly surprised when it was just Barbara.

_Feeling better now? Have a furry companion yet?_

He moved to answer, but his finger stopped just over the glass, as the sudden realization hit him out of nowhere. Just a year ago, a text like that would have made him trash his phone and get a new one. Now the only thing that bothered him was the nagging subtext between the lines: ‘do you have a pet and when can I come and cuddle it?’

Jason chuckled. He supposed it was fair. He had hogged the cats’ attention for almost two months, after all. Still, Barbara had a point. Jason grabbed his backpack – for the new dishes he’d wanted to buy – and put on his boots and jacket, then texted back.

_“I knew I had forgotten something…”_

***

He went for Robinson Park Mall once more, both to watch the manager’s face pale as he strolled into the home wares store and the memories of his last, deliberately trolling visit returned to her, and because it was on his way to the shelter. The manager seemed to have learned. This time, she did not look at him as if he was dirt beneath her boot. Jason, in return, did not spend eight minutes browsing the kitchen section. He knew what he was looking for and quickly asked for a full set of the white kitchen dishes of matching bowls, big plates, small plates, cups, and glasses with the thin, red lines crossing over the porcelain in a perfect golden section. The clerk he had addressed fetched it for him without question, took one look at his backpack, and somehow managed to fit everything into a sturdy bundle of cardboard and white tissue wrap plastic that fit perfectly into the backpack. Jason thanked her and left before the manager had time to come up with any insane ideas, such as shooing him out of the store.

The pet shop was next. Jason pointedly walked past the fish tanks in the front – he was tempted to buy a few colorful fish for Dick’s apartment, because Dick loved colorful, moving things, but he also knew Dick could not keep a goldfish to save his life – and headed straight for the leashes. From what he had read – and from what he remembered of his brief time with Ace, he would need two: a short one for walks and a long one for obedience training. Two bags of food and treats, a water bowl, and  a chew toy completed his preliminary shopping. This time, he didn’t bother to say goodbye. He was going to be back here in half an hour anyway to buy a properly sized bed.

The shelter was only a ten minute walking distance from the mall and yet somehow that was enough to zap what little daylight remained out of the city. Jason glanced up briefly as the street lights came on, then continued walking. In the dark of Gotham’s night, the shelter looked absolutely desolate. Jason took a deep breath and stepped inside.

The barking and howling was almost immediate, to the point where he honestly wondered if maybe this place just had really good sound-proofing. Maybe that was why they couldn’t afford someone for the front desk. The place looked deserted and it was only after shouting twice that there was movement at last.

The young man who answered his call looked to be dead on his feet already.

“Busy night?”

“Busy month,” the volunteer, _Mike_ , according to his name tag, replied wearily. “First three months after Christmas everyone and their mother dumps their puppies and kittens here, because they suddenly realized that a pet is too much trouble.” Mike mustered him briefly, with special attention to the short leash in his right hand. “Please tell me you’re here to adopt.”

“I’m here to adopt.”

“Yes!” Mike almost jumped for joy. “Thank you baby Jesus! Dog or cat?”

“Dog.”

Mike nodded and started moving. Jason followed. In the back, to the left behind the sales area, Pandora’s box had apparently opened and spilled a deluge of cats and dogs to their feet. Every single cage was occupied, some with more than one puppy or kitten. Every once in a while Jason could see older dogs as well, but most were puppies. It was surreal. People always went for the babies first, whether it was with cats, dogs, or actual humans. It was like he had walked into some freaky mirror universe.

On the ceiling, two of the neon lights were out, a third was flickering in annoyance. The pets apparently did not like it either, nor did they enjoy the overcrowding. He saw more than a few dogs crouched to the ground with their hairs standing up straight and their teeth bared. These were not happy dogs.

“How long do you keep them?” He didn’t bother to ask if this was a no-kill shelter. There were no “no-kill” shelters in Gotham, outside of Wayne Foundation operated properties. No-one had the manpower, much less the money. And no-one ever bothered to fucking spay or neuter their dogs.

“As long as we can.” To Mike’s credit, he sounded appropriately heartbroken about it. “Vet comes by every other week. That’s when we look at the budget, see how many we can afford to keep and who’s been here the longest.” Mike swallowed hard. “Last ten weeks have been hell.”

Jason could only imagine. It always sounded sooooo nice: buy little Lisa or Johnny a puppy or a kitten and everything will be fine. After all, kids love puppies and kittens, right? They’ll be perfect!

 _Can I have him, Daddy? Please, please, please! I’ll take really good care of him_ , Joker crooned in the back of his head and Jason scratched the scar on his face in utter disgust. The sooner he got out of here, the better.

“Got any specific preferences? Puppy? Grown-up? Male/female? Specific breed?”

“Husky,” Jason said quickly. It had been dark and he hadn’t gotten the best look, what with the poor little thing being covered in all kinds of nastiness he hadn’t even wanted to imagine, but from the shape of the face and ears, he had been pretty sure it had been a Siberian husky.

“Popular breed,” Mike mused. “I hope you _really_ like exercising.”

Jason scoffed. “Do I look like a couch potato?”

“Nope.” Mike shook his head and started walking. Many of the dogs barked or growled at them as they went down the aisle between the cages. They stopped at the bottom left corner of the room. In the second cage from the back, a grown, copper-red husky paced back and forth restlessly, ears popped up and tail and back straight as a candle. Alertness. “This is Mia. She’s three years old. Mostly lovely temper, but a real escape artist and exercise nut. She _will_ eat your furniture if you don’t take her out often enough.”

 _Which is probably why she’s still here_ , Jason thought as tried to run through his daily routine plus a dog in his head. On his best days, handling her would be a piece of cake. On his worst, it would be a nightmare. He let her sniff his hand through the cage and was not surprised when she retreated all the way to the back of the cage and curled up with her ears raised tall.

“I don’t think she likes me all that much,” Jason stated as a matter-of-fact. He had seen that behavior before, dogs that looked perfectly peaceful, but were actually on full alert and ready to bite you if you tried to go near them. “Who’s candidate number 2?”

“Steel.” Mike moved other to another aisle and stopped halfway down. In the cage to his right, a black-and-white husky puppy stood, barking at the grate and anyone who even dared to come near it. The moment Jason was within a foot of the cage, the puppy was on its feet and pawing at the barrier. “I know,” Mike held up one of his hands in defense, “he looks and sounds like he wants to rip your throat out, but if you look at the way he’s stretching his back and wagging his tail – he’s actually just happy to see you and wants to play. He’s a bit bossy, but he gets more comfortable the bigger his pack is, so if you have other pets, I’d recommend him. If not, Mia.”

“How old is he?”

“Fourteen weeks.”

“Neutered?”

“Not yet.”

 _Not ever_ , Jason read between the lines. _Not in this joint at least_. If they barely had enough money to get their dogs to survive the month, then this certainly meant nobody bothered to shell out hundreds of bucks for an optional procedure and at fourteen weeks, this dog had already had plenty of opportunities to be ‘bossy’. Truth be told, Jason was half-sure that was actually code for ‘he is an insufferable diva’. He had been there with Tim’s cat. He didn’t need that aggravation right now.

“You said there were three.”

Mike winced hard, to the point where Jason was surprised he couldn’t hear the man’s shoulders crack. “Well, there is Thor...”

The last puppy was on the other side of the room, center of the row against the wall. He was crouched against the wall, tail tucked in, ears pressed down and just a hint of bared teeth between his lips. The whine that escaped his lips as they approached the cage was downright pathetic. He seemed to be making himself as small as possible, yet he shied away from the corners and eyed the dogs in the adjoining grates as if they were going to eat him alive.

Jason raised his eyebrows. “A little timid for a dog named after the god of thunder, huh?”

“Oh, he wasn’t timid when we brought him in,” Mike replied all too quickly and for a moment Jason could see the same shadow ghost across his face that Jason knew was plastered onto his own at times. There were bad memories here and the taut sound of Mike’s voice confirmed it. “Should have known from the start he was gonna be a tough one. I mean, he was brought in by the freaking Red Hood!”

“Red Hood?” Jason forced his lips to remain still. Pretending not to know a damn thing had always been the best part of these conversations. It was hilarious. It was also difficult as fuck. “The guy with the guns?”

“The guns and the red helmet,” Mike confirmed. “Dropped him off here covered in dirt and dust and god knows what. Must have been... about three weeks ago? Said he’d found him an abandoned puppy mill. Little bastard nearly escaped thrice in one our, bit one of the vet assistants and one of our volunteers, and destroyed two leashes. First thing our vet said was ‘quite a thunderbolt, huh?’ and so we named him Thor. Sadly, I think he might be pretty much unadoptable.”

Now that was curious. Jason took a step back and mustered the puppy from head to toe. “Why? He’s what? Eight weeks old?”

“Seven.”

“And he’s not trying to attack anyone now. Quite the opposite actually.”

“And that’s the problem.” The volunteer took a deep breath. “Huskies are really smart. Usually they straighten out pretty quickly if you put them in a pack, and they love company, but the moment you try to put this one next to anyone else, he’ll go completely crazy. If he can’t bite the other dog bloody, he’ll bite himself and... well, anything within reach. At first we thought that was because of the fleas, but we _did_ get rid of those.”

Jason wanted to face-palm. He had told them, specifically told them, that this one came from a puppy mill. Crowded cages. Too many dogs. Too much noise. Poor thing was clearly shell-shocked.

“We tried giving him space, too,” Mike added, “but then all he does is bundle up in the back, like he’s doing right now. Won’t eat, won’t drink. We had to force-feed him and he’s still underweight at six pounds. Not even treats work.”

Jason pondered this new information, then took off his backpack and slid into a cross-legged sitting position slowly, with his back to the grate. He turned his head just enough to catch a glimpse of the light silver fur out of the corner of his eye. “So, you’re a PTSD-ridden husky who’s forgotten how to husky, huh?” Jason snorted and turned his face away again. “Yeah, I know a thing or two about how that feels.” He looked up at Mike and gave a quick nod. “Gimme a minute. I’m pretty sure you were busy with something when I walked in?”

‘Something’ turned out to be cleaning out all the kitty litter boxes. Jason watched Mike work in the distance as the dogs around him continued pacing. The barking had long-since died down, but there was the occasional whine and howl. Jason closed his eyes, forced himself into the same steady breathing rhythm that usually came with meditation, and started counting.

He had reached five-hundred and eighty-four when he felt a soft poke through the cage. Jason remained sitting as he was, while taking off his left-hand glove and putting his fingers against the grate. Only a few seconds later, something slightly rough and wet lapped against his fingers.

From the other end of the room, Mike looked at him in absolute shock. “How did you—“

Jason shushed him and turned around slowly. The short leash was still in his pocket and he made sure to tuck it firmly between his fingers as he put both his hands in front of the cage. Thor tried to eat it once, then decided that he wasn’t done cleaning this strange, huge, hairless dog.

“I’ll take him,” Jason muttered just loud enough to cross the distance, but Mike was already there with the key in hand. The puppy retreated as the cage opened, but Jason didn’t mind. He could sit here all night, waiting for him to come to the leash again. “I take it he ain’t neutered either?”

Mike shook his head. “He has had his first dose of vaccinations two days ago. I’ll print out his pet pass for you. It has all his medical examinations, weight, height, etc.”

Jason nodded and Mike hurried off, clearly hoping to get this over with before Jason changed his mind. By the time he returned, Thor had started licking his palms and Jason snapped the leash shut quickly around the ring at the back off the collar. The puppy whined at the sudden trick, but Jason was having none of it. His fingers poked against the furry neck quickly.

“No.”

Another whine, another poke.

“No.”

The puppy looked at him, as if to dare him to do it again, then dropped his ears low and relaxed. Jason smiled and ran his hands through the soft silver fur. Come to think of it, the pup was more fur than anything else. “Good boy, Thor. Very good. Now let’s go.”

He got up slowly and was grateful that the ache in his ankles had mellowed out to little more than a sharp sting. At first, there was a sharp tug on the leash. Jason tugged right back and started moving. Only a few seconds later, the puppy was all but plastered to his calf.

He had Mike put down a bowl of water and some food while he filled out the adoption forms, paid his two-hundred dollar fee with ten hundred-dollar bills, and turned down the change. Perhaps the money would be enough to save a handful of dogs when the next payday came around. Jason stuffed his receipts and the pet pass into one of the inside pockets of his jacket and turned his attention back to the husky.

The treats were gone, as was the water. That was good. Each dog was different and he needed to see how long it would take this little one to eliminate after eating to make sure he wouldn’t poop all over the apartment. Or at least the parts of the apartment he’d give him access to. He had dog-proofed the living room two days ago in between reading sessions – no loose cables, screws, or other things small enough to chew and swallow, no more plants on the ground. The same thing was true for the kitchen and he had moved all cleaning products to the firmly locked storage room. The bathroom and bedroom would be off limits for now as well. Hopefully it was going to work out.

The cold night air hit him hard in the face the moment he stepped out of the shelter. Jason shuddered in his jacket – a perfectly instinctive response, because Alfred had specifically bought a jacket that would keep him warm, even in Gotham’s worst weather – and started walking. Thor remained stuck to his calf for all of fifteen seconds. Then he brought honor to his name.

It was as if the pup had never seen snow before. Jason shook his head as the little fur ball tried to run ahead and jump and roll around in the snow. He stopped immediately, tucked just hard enough on the leash and did not give in until the dog came trotting back to him, ears laid flat and back relaxed. Jason crouched down and ruffled his fur, praising the good behavior. As he had learned with Ace before, that was all it usually took. Mild discipline for misbehavior. Affection for good behavior. And a lot of walking. And a lot of consistency.

They reached the Urbarail station just before eight. Instead of going up the stairs, Jason took another walk around the blog. Then another. Sixteen minutes after his last meal, Thor finally headed for the nearest bush. Jason turned away for all of five seconds for a cursory scan of the surrounding area – Robinson Park was NOT the safest part of town – and turned back around only to find the puppy snapping at its own feces.

“Fuck no!” He crouched down quickly and delivered a quick, well-placed poke. The puppy backed off just a little, still eyeing its unfinished ‘dinner’ as if he had just interrupted a five-star gourmet meal. Jason frowned. _Of all the fucking disgusting habits puppies could have it just had to be that one..._ “You disgusting little scavenger...”

To be fair, Mike had warned him.

“No!” He caught the lunge forward just in time and delivered another soft jab. Thor whined at him. Jason wasn’t having it. He got up just as quickly as he had crouched down, and started walking, keeping the line the same length despite the puppy’s protests. Thor could wine all he wanted. Jason had read all about the utter drama queens huskies could be and he was not having it. He was the one calling the shots here. Not the six-pound swiffer. If he decided to walk, they’d walk.

It took another two walks around the block before the whining stopped and the little feet behind him changed from reluctant hopping to relaxed trotting next to his leg. Only once they reached the stairs up to the rail did the stubbornness return. This time, it was not for drama. Jason could tell from the way the puppy curled in on himself, tail between its legs and ears low.

“You haven’t figured out stairs yet, have you?” It wasn’t surprising. There had been no stairs in the mill or in the shelter and he was only seven weeks old. The stairs were almost the same height as the puppy. “Come on. One step. You can do it.”

Jason meant it. He bent his own knees just a little, then all but jumped onto the first step and waited there. It looked ridiculous of course, but that was not the point. He relaxed the leash, turned his back to the dog, and glanced downward. Thor didn’t like confrontation, but he was naturally curious as any puppy tended to be. He could do it.

He waited for a full eight minutes and sixty-one angry passengers who bumped shoulders with him on their way up or down. Jason couldn’t have cared less, so long as it was only him they were bumping into. Then, halfway through the ninth minute, a soft yelp sounded from below.

He had tried as hard as he could. Jason had to give him credit for that. He had pounced as best as he could and had managed to get three of his paws onto the step. The fourth was kicking frantically at thin air. Jason gave it a quick shove and waited as the puppy did circles on the step, sniffing and yapping at everything and nothing. The moment he calmed down, Jason petted him again.

“Good boy...” The puppy all but melted in his hand as Jason scratched him just above the collar and that was good enough for him to keep his fingers there for a little longer. “You did great, Thor. You’re a good doggo.”

A good doggo who would not be able to go up another thirty-one steps to the platform and would probably pee all over the train car, if Jason simply were to keep him on the leash. Jason took a deep breath, scooped up the little fur ball despite his short yelp of surprise and tucked him into the bag with the supplies from the pet store. Perhaps it was the way he was confined, but not squeezed, that turned Thor quiet. Perhaps it was the residual warm radiating from Jason’s body. Either way, the puppy calmed down quickly, lapping at the gentle drift of fresh snowflakes as they headed for the train. Jason chuckled.

This was gonna be a wild ride.

***

It turned out ok...ish. Jason figured the Urbarail ride could have been worse. Granted, Thor had nearly bitten the fingers off of no less than six people who had tried to pet him without permission and snapped angrily at a seventh who had tried to ignore the explicit “no, miss, you may not”, but other than that he had done pretty well. He had not peed in the bag, he had only been mildly erratic once released back onto the sidewalk and he had not howled in trauma at being stuck in a crowded train car. As a matter of fact, Jason had almost started to believe that he had underestimated the extent of the little fur ball’s PTSD.

Then they had reached the apartment.

Thor had dashed off into the living room the moment the leash was off. Jason had not minded – he had dog-proofed the place after all – and had taken his time shrugging out of his jacket and boots and putting the leash onto the coat rack.

He realized it had been a bad idea the moment he entered the room.

When he couldn’t find the puppy after a cursory glance into the room, Jason started in the typical hiding spaces he had learned from Barb and Tim’s cats: behind the couch, under the couch, behind the curtains, behind the TV and behind the potted plants. He had even checked lower cupboards of the kitchen, unlikely as he thought it would be for Thor to have opened magnetic locks, but his search had been fruitless. Jason had been busy quelling the rising spark of shit-I-lost-my-pet panic in his gut when he walked back into the living room and spotted a patch of silver in one of the bottom row cubes of his bookshelf. The choice seemed strange right up until he crouched down on the floor to inspect the shelf further.

Thor was curled up at the very back of the cube, trying to cover his nose with his not-yet-bushy-enough tail, his ears tucked low and the softest of whimpers coming from him. The cross-section of the cube was exactly one square foot, just the same size as the vents back in the puppy mill.

“Hiding from the noisy, crowded world like in the old days, huh?”

Jason could sympathize. He had spent his first few nights after the City Of Fear hiding in the slums of Gotham, moving from place to place at least twice a week, just as he had done in his early days at the manor, whenever the emotional overload of being confronted with people who genuinely forgave his earlier transgressions had become too much to bear or whenever Bruce or Alfred or Dick or Barb had accidentally triggered any of the darker memories in his mind. One was too comfortable, the other was too miserable, and he, too, had sought out places that offered just enough discomfort to be real and just enough security to be able to sleep. He could relate.

“Well, I’m sorry, buddy, but you can’t stay in that one.” He could have, if he had given Jason the choice to let him in there, but that hadn’t happened, and the last thing he needed was a puppy peeing in and on his book shelf. “Gimme a minute, okay?”

He closed the door behind himself as he disappeared into his bedroom and fetched one of the blankets from his bed, and closed the door again as he returned. When he got to the living room, Thor was still curled up in his hidey hole. Jason chose the compartment in the same row, but on the other side of the shelf and laid out the blanket to cover the bottom and provide some additional folds for burrowing. Then he retrieved the treats from the bag and started laying a trail from the den all the way back to the dog and went to unpack the rest of the pet supplies in the kitchen.

For now, there would be no bowl of food or water on the floor at all times. Not until he had taught this little pupper that any peeing and pooping had to be done outside, preferably without trying to eat it afterwards.

It took the better part of two hours for him to come out of his hiding space. Jason watched from his spot on the couch, reading _Sense & Sensibility_, when he noticed a patch of silver out of the corner of his eye. Jason started switching between watching the puppy and reading another paragraph as he made his way around the room, sniffing at everything in sight. He lost track of him as he passed around the couch and went off into the hallway, but Jason wasn’t too worried. He had closed all the doors and locked the front door for good measure.

Then, eight minutes later, a paw suddenly appeared to his left, on the edge of the couch, followed by two big eyes, perked up ears, and a wagging tail. Jason raised his eyebrows. “If you think you’re getting on this couch, pal, you’re gonna be disappointed.”

Thor gave a small whine. Jason pushed it out of his mind. It was tempting to give in. It would even be cute right now, when it was just him and a seven pound puppy. It would be less cute when it was him and the others and a sixty-pound, fully grown husky. The couch and the bed would always be off-limits and he would need to be consistent. Still, it couldn’t hurt to at least interact with the little critter, now that he had finally come out of his hiding spot.

Jason sighed, put the book back into the top row of the shelf and retrieved the chew toy, a bone-shaped bundle of thick, cotton rope, which he set down in front of the puppy. For a moment, Thor looked at it as if it was the strangest thing he had ever seen. Then, all hell broke loose.

It was as if the bone had suddenly turned into the most hostile thing on the planet. Jason watched in amusement as the puppy went after it like there was no tomorrow, biting and scratching all while growling in as threatening a voice as a seven-month-old pup could muster. After a minute-and-a-half, he suddenly stopped, pausing as if he had regained his senses, before attacking the bone again. Jason took a deep breath and tugged.

There was a fine line between giving proper resistance and accidentally flinging both the bone and the dog onto the other side of the room. Thor was relentless. So was Jason. He wasn’t entirely sure how long they had wrestled, but by the time the puppy finally let go, Jason could feel the exercise in his wrist.

“Alright, you had your fun. Let’s see how quickly you learn.” He threw the bone into the doorway to the kitchen and Thor bolted after it instantly. Jason watched him bite the poor thing to death for the hundredth time and waited for him to look up again. “Thor: come.” The dog looked at him in utter confusion. Jason sighed. He had known this would take a while. “Come.” He repeated the word as calmly as possible. No shouting. No anger. The poor thing. Had been through enough. “Come.”

On the ninth try, after dropping the toy, plopping down on the spot, whining in confusion, and generally doing everything but return to him, Thor finally grabbed the toy and trotted back to him. Jason smiled, scratched that spot behind the collar once more, and placed a soft kiss on the puppy’s head. “Good boy, Thor. You’re a very good boy.”

The pup yapped happily and licked his tongue across Jason’s cheek. The left one. The burnt one. Jason recoiled, forcing another yap out of the dog as he tilted his head in curiosity and tugged his tail between his legs. Jason closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and forced the memories back down from where they had come.

“It’s okay, Thor. That wasn’t your fault. I’m not angry.”

He wasn’t sure if the puppy had understood him, but at least he gradually stopped cowering in fear. Jason stood up slowly and headed for the kitchen, soft paws trailing in his step. A quick glance at the clock told him that now would be a good time for normal people with decent schedules to go to sleep. It didn’t exactly fit his normal routine, but if he was going to paint Dick’s apartment – and he only had nine days left, less if he wanted to get this little four-legged floof onto a regular schedule first, than he had better do it during the day time. Puppies needed two sessions of sleep anyway, as far as he was aware. He could keep the set times. Ten-thirty was a great time to start patrol.

Jason filled the food and water bowls, turned around, and looked down at the puppy to his feet. He was pawing at the shins, clearly familiar with the sight before him. “No.” Slowly, the pawing stopped. The dog relaxed. Jason set the bowls down, ruffled the husky’s fur, and went to pick up his book again. He set the timer on his phone to fifteen minutes and started reading.

By the time the alarm went off, Thor was busy murdering the toy once more, this time in the safety of his newly found blanket bed. Jason killed the alarm, retrieved the leash, gloves and plastic bag, and sat down in front of the shelf once more, leash at his side, just like before. It only took the puppy a minute to pick up on what was going on and Jason was happy to see that he neither made a fuss about the leash, nor had he pooped or peed in his bed. Score one for timely training.

The streets in front of the apartment building were almost empty at this hour or at least they looked like it. Jason knew better. There was always life if you knew where to look and how to listen. There was a siren in the distance and a shadow in the alley to his left. Further down the road, a woman was strolling up and down the street, pretending to be texting a friend. Jason knew better. It wasn’t a friend she was looking for.

Jason headed for the tree closest to the nearest trash bin and waited as Thor sniffed the trunk. He seemed confused, but Jason merely waited. Sure enough, three minutes in, the puppy lifted his leg, then moved just a bit and squatted down. This time, Jason caught him before he had his nose in the mess.

“No!” He delivered a quick poke. Thor gave the equivalent of a grumpy whine. Jason only stared back in defiance. Unlike last time, the puppy didn’t try again and Jason rewarded him with a quick rub. Then, he started walking in the other direction, picking up the pace and winding his way through streets that were only slowly being cleared of the mountains of snow. The puppy followed him with quick steps and jumps, two or three for each of Jason’s stride. Halfway up St. Peter’s Square, he tried to chase after a pigeon. Jason stopped immediately, tucked sharply, and waited for Thor to fall in line at his side again, to calm down fully as the futility of trying to run off set in, then continued down the square.

The walk lasted little more than half an hour, yet by the time they returned to the apartment complex, Thor was walking with his head low and his tongue hanging from his mouth. Once inside, Jason took him straight to the book shelf, unclipped the leash, and watched as he retreated under the blankets, burrowing deep inside his hideout. Jason gave a little smile at the toothy yawn that signaled the puppy’s imminent slumber.

“Good night, buddy.”

The yawn was infectious. Jason rolled his shoulders and was pleased to notice that the pain was still there, but not as bad as before. He contemplated going to sleep in his room for all of a minute, before deciding against it. Leaving a puppy alone and unwatched for two long was not the brightest idea.

In the end, he got his pillow and duvet from his room, set his phone alarm for another ten hours, and went to sleep on the couch. It was nowhere near the worst place he had ever slept in.

***

In his dreams, Jason was hanging from the ceiling, suspended by his wrists. Everything between his hands and his back was on fire. He could feel the blood where it had dried and plastered his suit to his skin. He could feel it even more where it was still slick and heavy. Thankfully, he had lost his sense of smell days ago. Broken noses tended to do that. His right foot dangled uselessly from his shattered ankle. His left foot was alight with pins and needles as the limb came awake together with the rest of him.

It was dark. It was cold. I was a nightmare. Just a nightmare.

The knowledge did not make it better.

“What do we have here then?” Jason shuddered. _Not again. Not after all these months. Not again._ “Wakey, wakey!”

He wanted to play possum, like Bruce had taught him. He really did, but something inside him snapped at the sound of the cooing voice. For a moment his brain forgot where he was and he jerked on sheer instinct, mumbling against the foul-tasting duct tape over his mouth. Joker was smiling. “What’s wrong? Do you think I’m going to hurt you? Why? I’m not the bad one here. Oh no, no, no, no. It’s Batman! He’s abandoned you… thrown you away like an unwanted puppy.”

 _Not this again…_ Of all the nightmares, all the memories, this was among the top five he hated the most. It was also among the most vivid. It was like a train wreck. He wanted to close his eyes and turn away, to shut it all out, but his gaze was glued to the clown as he went onto his knees.

“Can I have him, daddy? Oh, please, please, please, please, please! I’ll take _real_ good care of him.”

 _This_ was _not_ real good care. Jason owned a dog. _Ace._ He would rather cut off both of his feet than treat Ace like this.

“Anything to make you happy, princess,” Joker said, now standing tall and straight as an I. “Just make sure people know he’s yours.” The ropes around his wrists snapped. Jason landed hard and rolled over as gently as he could. It was just a nightmare. The pain throughout every bone in his body was just an illusion, but it was an illusion that hurt like hell. “We don’t want him to end up back here, do we?”

“No, we don’t, daddy,” Joker pleaded in his sweetest voice. Jason retreated, cowering like a beaten dog. He didn’t want to. He wanted to stand up, to sit up at least. He wanted to spit into the clown’s face, but since that was not what had happened the first time, it didn’t happen now either. His body was no longer his own. It hadn’t been for many nights. “I want to keep him forever!”

“No!” The words came from his mouth, frantic and unbidden. _Shut up, you idiot_ , Jason growled through clenched teeth. _You’re just making this more enjoyable for him._ “No please! Please no!” The glowing iron descended slow and fast, all at once. There was no time to stop it and yet his eyes were painfully aware of every frame as it came closer, closing in on his cheek, just below his left eye. “No!”

His shouts dissolved into pained cries just as the metal connected, searing through his skin and flesh, deep into the muscle. Suddenly he could smell. Burnt flesh. Rusty metal. Salt. He continued screaming as the metal retreated and Jason knew he would continue for a long, long time. The pain never fully left and in his nightmares a minute was a lifetime. He had done this dance before. He was only here to watch and suffer.

Then, something lapped against his cheek. Jason startled. This was new. He could feel the ground grow soft under his broken body, tiles morphing slowly into something giving, like a cushion. He was still cold, but he could feel it was the damp cold of sweat. The lapping continued. A high-pitched sound drilled into his brain, louder even than Joker’s laugh and Jason’s screams. Somewhere down the line, his vocal cords surrendered and slowly, very tentatively, the howl faded into a whine. The lapping continued. Something was poking his chest and face. As he slowly regained control of his body, Jason felt something fluffy against his eyes. He swished the fluff away and came face to face with a half-wet tongue instead.

“Thor?”

The puppy stopped licking for a second and planted his tiny feet firmly on Jason’s chest and chin. His head was tilted to the side, his eyes perked up in alert. The whining continued, although a little more softly.

 _Right._ Jason wanted to smack himself. _I have a puppy now._

A puppy who was not allowed on the couch, who knew that he was not allowed on the couch. A puppy who had fallen asleep last time he had checked. A puppy who, just a few hours earlier, had barely managed to climb up one step on a staircase, yet had somehow managed to jump onto the couch, onto Jason’s not-quite-two-hundred-pounds-yet of muscle, and had pawed and licked him in the face and howled up a storm until he had finally woken up.

Jason grimaced. “I scared ya, didn’t I?” He brought one hand up to the puppy’s head and patted him slowly, massaging the pups’ fluffy ears. He seemed to like that, although the whining continued. “I’m sorry, Thor, but this is how most of my nights go.” All of his nights, actually, but now seemed like a horrible time to be brutally honest and pessimistic. “I’m sorry I woke you up, pal.”

Thor shook himself, raining little silvery strands of hair everywhere and mewled in disapproval. Then, he crawled under the sheets and curled up on Jason’s chest. The softly wagging tail tickled his collarbone, but Jason had had worse. So. Much. Worse. He forced a smile onto his face as he brought one hand up into thick fur on the puppy’s back.

Okay. ‘Force’ was the wrong word. This time it was surprisingly easy. Jason felt the surprise settle in his gut.

This was… nice. It was nice not waking up all alone. It was nice knowing that someone was watching over him. It was nice feeling something soft and warm under his fingers for once, not the cold, harsh tiles of the Asylum. It was nice.

Jason closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Bless you, you little fluff ball.”

***

Thor woke him up twice before his ten hours were over, but Jason didn’t mind. Granted, dragging himself out of the sheets and then out into a cold, snow-covered alley with nothing but his boxers, shoes, keys, a leash, and the dog attached to the leash, was not his ideal version of a break, but it beat getting peed on by a seven-week-old Siberian Husky.

He spent the next three days obsessed with training, both for the husky and for himself. In between his injuries and the weather and the onset of fucking depression, he had missed out on enough muscle recovery. That needed to change.

Thor could use the training, too. He was… reluctant, to put it mildly, but if Jason had learned one thing in his time as Robin, it was putting up with obtuse, moody assholes. He was not giving an inch. Gentle pokes for bites. Treats for good behavior. Sooner or later it was gonna stick. When Thor finally, properly obeyed the ‘bed’ command by the end of the third day, Jason felt vindicated.

On March 18th, the alarm on his phone rang at precisely eight in the morning. Jason made sure to give the little critter fresh food and water, then slipped into some of his exercise clothes and threw all his necessary supplies into the bag from the pet shop. He left the apartment just in time to take the puppy out for another episode of ‘don’t eat your poop, or I’ll poke you’ and headed for the Urbarail.

The route to Blüdhaven was longer and much more crowded and Thor was proportionally shier as he retreated into the depths of the bag. Jason had thought about leaving him at home, but had ultimately decided against it. There was no way he was leaving a puppy who was not even old enough to get neutered – something he would take care of _after_ Dick’s birthday – he didn’t want to introduce the poor thing to the others with a cone of shame around his head – alone in his apartment for more than two hours. On the way between the station and Dick’s new domicile, Jason skipped into a hardware store, bought a spray gun, face mask, and long latex gloves, and asked them for a cubic foot spare cardboard box. The attendant raised his eyebrows, but complied nonetheless, providing him with a discarded Amazon box. It was perfect.

As far as Jason knew, the building Dick’s new loft was in had once been a publishing house for several newspapers, with each newspaper owning half a floor - two-thousand square feet with six individual, editorial offices of ten by fifteen feet, a long hallway, and a bigger room for all the typewriter monkeys. He had studied the blueprints and the pictures Barbara had shown him. He knew what he was doing.

Dick’s apartment was on the top floor of course, ten stories up, with direct access to the roof, on the south side of the building. That was also good. It would help keep the dark blue from being too depressing.

When he got into the apartment proper, the furniture was already there, although still neatly boxed. Jason put his own, pitifully small cardboard box into the farthest corner of the living room, added Thor’s blanket, took of the leash, and said ‘bed’. Thor looked at him once, then trotted into his little hidey hole and curled up with his tail tickling his nose. Jason handed him a treat, then got to work. The paint cans were on the kitchen counter, four half-gallon cans of BM Prime’s Phtalo Blue. Jason grabbed a can, a rolling brush, and the masking tape, and began to work.

He started in the guest bedroom, the one that was going to have an ivory white bed, and painted both sidewalls blue. It made the walls recede, giving the room a less rectangular shape. Every window in this place was huge, and there was still enough light to keep the room from being depressing. The work was done in half an hour, mostly because it only involved painting a solid color with a paint that actually covered in one coat. Jason had gotten very good at that. He opened the window wide to let out the sharp smell of wet paint and moved on.

The master bedroom with its Egyptian blue bed – still in boxes – was next. Here, the wall between two offices had been torn down, creating a fifteen by twenty feet sanctuary. Jason painted the windowed wall to even out the space and moved on to the bathroom. Everything up to six feet height was made of small, ivory-white tiles. Jason made sure to paint the remaining twelve feet solid blue.

A quick glance at his phone told him that two and a half hours were up. Jason ditched the supplies, retrieved the leash and took Thor for a short potty break. This street had more trees, but fewer garbage bins and Jason was just about busy searching for nearest one when a familiar voice reached his ears.

“Jason?”

“No, I’m the painter fairy,” Jason quipped as he turned his head. Tim looked less like a fairy and more like an overweight seal, bundled up in way too many, way too expensive clothes. Sometimes it was really hard to forget that he had grown up with a silver spoon in his mouth. Well. At least he had yet to be an ass about it.

“Didn’t think I’d catch you here. Barb told me she told you the furniture was coming on the 17th. Figured you’d get here before—“ The smile vanished from Tim’s face. A few seconds later it was replaced by a loud laugh that caused Thor to jump on the other end of the leash. “Oh. My. God.” Tim grinned. “I thought Barbara was kidding when she said you’d get a dog!”

“Well, half a dog,” Jason argued. “He’s barely eight weeks old and underfed.” He had slowly taken care of that, of course, but Thor was still too light and too small for a husky his age. “Remember when I pulled a puppy out of the vents in Nigma’s little obstacle course?”

“Of course.” There was something warm and fuzzy in Tim’s voice. Jason couldn’t blame him. That had been one of his better days. Tim seemed to think so, too, or perhaps it was just Thor’s general cuteness level that had his face light up. “He is adora—wait. What exactly is he doing?”

Jason turned, paled, and wanted to kick the nearest thing that was not the dog. Perhaps the tree or the fence or Tim. Instead, he shouted a quick ‘hey’ and delivered a sharp poke. Thor glared right back at him, growling through his teeth.

It would have been more effective had Jason not known where those teeth had just been.

“No. Eating. Poop.”

Thor growled and tried to stick his nose right back in. Jason tugged on the leash. “NO.”

This time, he had to repeat the game four times. The moment the puppy settled down, Jason ruffled his fur. “Good boy. Hold this.” He pushed the leash into Tim’s hand and retrieved a glove from his pocket to pick up the droppings before the husky would get any more smart ideas. When he finally returned from the garbage bin, Tim’s smile had turned into a wide grin.

“And I thought my cat was disgusting for licking her own ass. Does he do that a lot?”

“He _tries_ a lot,” Jason replied as he retrieved the leash and led Thor back inside. Now that he no longer had to worry about his puppy eating his own shit, he finally noticed the power tool box in Tim’s hands. “Furniture assembly?”

“Yeah.”

“Start with the guest bed room. It’s painted already.”

***

Tim did start with the guest bedroom and Jason was grateful for that, not just because it meant he didn’t have to worry about getting paint onto Tim’s shiny nine-hundred dollar coat, but also because it meant more distance between the drills and hammers and his poor puppy’s ears.

He continued with the guest bathroom, a mirror image of the master bathroom, then moved on to the kitchen. It reminded him of his own, what with the waist-high counter separating it from the living room, so he gave it a similar paint job. By now three of the four paint canisters were empty. Jason sighed in frustration.

He found Tim in the guest bedroom, just finishing the last piece of furniture. It looked nice, all ivory white, framed by blue.

“We’ll have a blue carpet in here by tomorrow,” Tim said casually. “What’s up?”

“I need more paint.” Jason took a deep breath. “There’s a home depot ten minutes from here. Would you mind looking after Thor? Just... check on him to see if he’s still in his cardboard box in the living room every now and then?”

“His cardboard box?” Tim raised an eyebrow. “You sure he’s a dog and not a cat?”

Jason grimaced. “Positive. I’ll be back in thirty.”

Tim nodded and gave him a thumps up. Jason hushed out of the apartment and down the streets, and scoured the paint shelves in the store with laser focus. Compared to the disaster that had been his first paint purchase, this five-minute excursion was a breeze. He returned exactly twenty-two minutes after he had left, with another two gallons in his arms.

Tim kindly opened the door for him. “Another two gallons? How much do you have left to do?”

“That wall.” Jason set down the cans and pointed at the long wall that ran from the front door all the way to the massive ten feet window in the living room and separated Dick’s loft from the one on the north side.

“You’re gonna paint the entire thing blue?” Tim sounded incredulous. Jason shook his head.

“No. I’m gonna paint the lower half blue, then let the rest blend into the white. It’s called ombre.” Now Tim actually looked at him as if he was insane. Jason did not care. “First though, I gotta take the fluff ball out again. Don’t want him to pee in Dick’s fancy loft.”

He headed for the living room and around the massive boxes that currently held the pieces of the couch. Jason’s feet ground to a halt. “Tim, what the FUCK did I say about watching the puppy?”

Tim vaulted over the nearest box and paled until he was almost the same shade as the floor. “Shit. He was here just before I came to open the door for you. I swear.”

Jason sighed. He marched off to the guest bedroom before his anger could sink all the way down into his fist. It was probably not a good idea to punch Tim three days before Dick’s birthday party.

Thor was not in the bedroom. Not under the bed. Not under the dozens of feet of cardboard packaging. He was not in the master bedroom either, nor in any of the bathrooms. Jason double- and triple-checked the living room. Every nook. Every cranny. Nothing. Dread started to climb from his gut into his throat. Had he weaseled out of the door when Jason had brought in the additional paint? Had he—Jason swallowed hard. Had he climbed out of one of the damn windows? Except for the living room windows – which were still closed – all of them were fairly high up, but he had managed to drag himself up onto the couch before. It was ten-floor drop. Something akin to panic sparked in his stomach.

Then, Tim laughed. Jason followed the sound to the kitchen. He was sure he had checked that, too.

“What?!” He didn’t care if he was shouting. This was serious.

Tim grinned and pointed at the sink. “You sure he ain’t a cat?”

The husky was rolled up in the metal basin, tongue hanging out and one foot scratching softly behind his ears. For a moment, all Jason felt was relief. Then it occurred to him that there was a fur-covered, not fully house-trained puppy sitting _in the kitchen sink_.

“Ewww... Thor!” He reached in quickly and hoisted him out and onto the floor. Thor whined in protest, but Jason couldn’t have cared less. “You little shit! I’m gonna have to scrub this thing out with bleach and lysol now. Thank you, you little bastard.”

That only made Tim laugh again. Thor retreated into his little nest, curling up once more and pretending the change of scenery hadn’t happened.

Jason shook his head, left a note on the kitchen cupboard to sanitize the sink, and got back to painting.

He was done with the solid color parts and had just filled the spray gun with paint and put on his face mask when Tim emerged from the master bedroom, looking about ten years older.

“I swear this furniture assembling is gonna kill me.”

“You go on patrol eight hours every night,” Jason pointed out, his voice muffled by the mask, as he put on the light coat, almost up to the ceiling, for the first three feet of wall in the living room. Thank whoever had thought of putting one of those lightweight, aluminum ladders into this place. “I’m sure you’ve had worse than two bedrooms full of furniture.”

“Yeah,” Tim grabbed one of the sturdier boxes and sat down carefully. His eyes were following Jason’s hand, tracing every coat of paint. Yes, he needed more color that way, but the blending was absolutely perfect and the wall practically dissolved from deep blue into vanilla white. “Almost looks like a crashing wave...”

“That’s the point.”

Dick loved the ocean. Always had. It was no secret. If he was anywhere near a beach, near the soothing lull of waves or the cawing of a seagull, Dick was happy.

“Jason...” Tim suddenly sounded surprisingly somber. “Did you... sic Dick on me?”

Jason stopped the spray paint job and frowned. “Define ‘sic’.”

“He’s been... surprisingly social with me lately.” Tim gave a nervous little laugh. “You may not know this, but Dick actually pretty much kept his distance when I first became Robin. I think... I think losing you hit him really hard. I don’t think he was ready to care about another brother. But over the last two weeks, he’s actually made a point of meeting up. Joint cases... After-patrol pizza...”

Jason shrugged. “I might have had a few choice words for him about how I had been the center of everyone’s attention for too fucking long enough.”

He left it at that and continued the paint job. It was going really well, although that wasn’t saying too much, given that this fucking wall was a hundred feet long and the sun would go down soon. For a moment, the only sounds in the silence were the spray of his paint gun and Thor playing with his tug toy.

“Thank you, Jason.” Tim sounded like he really meant it. Thor agreed with a loud bark and made Tim laugh. “Hey, perhaps I should throw in a pet for him, too. He loves the sea right? And aquariums and fish?”

“He also can’t keep a pet to save his life,” Jason pointed out. “I won’t be an accessory to fish murder.”

He had just finished another three feet. Jason took a step back and admired his work. Even without the furniture, even without decorations, the wall already looked damn good. It had been a long time since he had felt this proud about anything that wasn’t related to shooting or killing things, or at least making Bruce’s life miserable.

_Decorations..._

“Hey, Tim...”

“Yeah?”

“You know how Dick likes _really_ kitschy retro deco... like, lava lamps and shit?”

Tim nodded. Jason pulled down the mask and grinned.

“I’ve got an idea.”


	39. Epilogue - Where The Heart Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is March 21st in Blüdhaven and for the first time in six years Jason is there to celebrate Dick's birthday. He is expecting the worst, but for once the universe is kind to Jason Peter Todd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the epilogue for Ill Weeds Grow Apace! This is it, folks. The very definitely very last chapter. The end to Jason's journey, for now.
> 
> It is also the end of a nearly 300k, 18 months WIP for me. Holy hell. It feels weird not having another chapter of IWGA to write, but it's also an incredible weight off my shoulders. I would like to thank everyone who read and/or reviewed, reblogged or recommended this fic, especially my wonderful loyalists, Virginie, Cerusee, Loxare, and Some1. I would not have managed to finish this monster without your support and I hope you will find this chapter to be an enjoyable and satisfying conclusion.
> 
> In case anyone is wondering, my next goal for now is to finish Gotham Banksy. After that, my next project is titled "Sleep" and I'm aiming for eight hours per day.
> 
> For status updates, writing trivia, fandom/fanfiction/writing related questions and occasional random ramblings, please visit my tumblr: http://lananiscorner.tumblr.com/

There was a game Dick had used to play with Jason. He called it ‘Blind Man Rough’, as in ‘the rough version of Blind Man’s Buff’. The rough part was that the players were swinging across the rooftops while playing.

Jason had been quietly terrified the first time they had played it.

In hindsight, Dick had wanted to kick himself. Of course Jason had not liked it one bit. Dick had learned early on to trust other people, as soon as he had been able to walk. His parents… the other performers… if they said they’d catch him, they’d catch him. If they said it was alright, that the distance was short enough and the drop was low enough, then the distance was short and the drop was low. They had never let him down and Dick had learned to trust. But Jason? Life had done nothing but let him down for almost fourteen years. Dick often wondered how he could have been so dense.

In the end, Jason had played, though. Dick could only guess that it was partially to avoid Dick complaining to Bruce about how Jason had flunked out of training – he never would have, but good luck explaining that to Jason – and partially to save his own ego, his own pride. A brave façade in the face of sheer fear.

When the penny had finally dropped, Dick had facepalmed hard enough to leave a bruise and give himself a headache. He had also vowed never to play that game again, so when Tim had come up to him after patrol, years later, asking him to play, Dick’s first thought had been that he was being trolled. The second had been that Jason wanted payback and was using poor Tim to get it.

 _“Are you really sure you want to do this?”_ Those words had probably left his mouth at least half a dozen times, before he had finally given in, leading Tim on a blindfolded parkour run through Bleake Island. After that, they had gone on to Blüdhaven, where the roles had been switched.

Now Dick was the blind man. He didn’t mind. He knew Blüdhaven like the back of his hand and he trusted Tim with his life. If Jason wanted him to feel terrified, this was the wrong way to go about it.

They had been going through the city for almost half an hour, working their way north to the less dodgy parts of the city. Fort Laurel had been an industrial district once, with high brick buildings with even higher chimneys, many of which were currently being converted into fancy lofts.

They landed on top of the old Herald building, previously home to most of Blüdhaven’s newspapers, before almost all of them went bankrupt. There was a faint, but acrid hint of smoke coming from one of the chimneys, which meant that someone had turned on the heating. That’s what made him stop when Tim asked him to drop down the hatch.

“Tim… there are people living here. I’m not going into a residential complex in full gear unless it’s for a case.”

“Well duh.” He could _hear_ Tim’s eyes rolling. “Red Hood and I have been working on this for almost two weeks now. We could use a fresh pair of eyes.”

That was his cue. Dick took off the blindfold and sighed. “Fine. But you could have just asked, you know? I thought we were done with work for tonight.”

Dick put his poker face back on and dropped through the hatch. The hallway was warm, bright and empty. He followed Tim to the door on the right side, facing away from the elevator, and stepped through quiet as a shadow. There were voices coming from the other side of the loft, far down the hallway, followed by a loud howl and whine. Dick bristled.

“Damn it, Tim, someone’s living here.”

“Sure is.”

Tim took Dick’s left hand, uncurled his fingers from the fist he had made, and pushed something cold and angular into it. Dick felt the color drain from his face.

Those were keys.

Tim took off his mask and grinned. “Welcome to your new home, Dick.”

Nightwing blinked. This had to be a bad dream. Maybe the cereal in his safe-house had gone bad again. He was always too tired to check the expiry date and too busy to go and buy a fresh box. He would have hoped he would have at least recognized the taste of mold, but perhaps Blüdhaven’s persistent stench had finally killed his last taste buds.

Then, another howl sounded and a familiar voice answered over a slight chuckle. “He sure has quite the organ for such a tiny floof ball.”

“He’s a Siberian husky, Barb,” Jason explained calmly. “Their howls can carry up to ten miles.”

 _Okay, that must have been really, really bad, moldy cereal_. Dick removed his own cowl and proceeded slowly.

The wall to his left started deep, dark blue at the bottom and gradually morphed into creamy white in the top three feet. Dick couldn’t help but marvel at it as he proceeded down the hall. The doors were painted blue, too, and he could see a matching carpet and couch in the distance. The closer he got, the more details he noticed: shelves painted blue that receded into the living room wall, the sound of meat sizzling in a pan, the smell of fresh blueberry pie. He had passed three doors when he reached the end. Before him, separated only by waist-high counter wall that sported various cooking utensils, lay a living room dressed in blue – _phthalo blue_ , Dick realized with a pang – and a kitchen with walls to match.

“Well, look what the Robin dragged in.” Jason was seated at the back of the room, in front of a foot-high cardboard box. “What took you so long?”

“I concur.” Was that Alfred? It must have been. Dick didn’t know anyone who sounded like that, much less someone who looked that wholly at peace standing in front of a stove brimming with food. “We were expecting you almost half an hour ago, Master Grayson.”

“This is a joke, right?” Dick gave a nervous little laugh. Just two minutes ago he had been running blindfolded across Blüdhaven’s rooftops with Robin. Now he was supposed to be standing in his own apartment. What the actual flick?

“Don’t look so surprised,” Barbara rolled her eyes at him. “You’ve been sleeping in tiny little safe-houses for almost three months now and since you can’t seem to find the time to get yourself a proper apartment, I did it for you.” For a second, Barbara’s eyes narrowed into a look she usually reserved for crooks. “And don’t you dare tell us you don’t like it. Jason and Tim spent three days painting and furnishing the place. Respectively.”

“You guys—“ Dick’s mind blanked for a second. He looked at Tim and suddenly Tim’s off-hand remark from earlier this night, about how his arms were killing him because of too much training, were such an obvious lie, it made him wonder how he could have been so dense. That wasn’t even the weird part, though. Dick looked at the wall with the gradient color again, then at Jason. “Seriously? You painted all that?”

“And all the other rooms,” Jason muttered through half-clenched teeth. “I think I’ll be washing blue paint out of my hair for the next three weeks.”

An affirming yelp sounded from the box behind him and Dick went to his knees. The puppy was cowering in the shadow of the very back of the cardboard, ears laid flat and teeth bared. A husky, if he wasn’t mistaken.

“Please don’t tell me you got me a dog, too.”

“I didn’t get you a fucking dog.”

“Oh thank God!” Dick sighed and praised the Lord in silence once more. It wasn’t that he didn’t like dogs. Dick loved dogs. They were super. Even better than cats. Much better than cats, actually, in his opinion, but he didn’t have the time for one. Even without BPD. And now that he had the new job... “Wait.” Dick raised an eyebrow. “If he’s not mine—“

“He’s mine, his name is Thor, he grew up in a puppy mill, and he doesn’t like people staring at him,” Jason growled through his teeth. “So do yourself a favor: ignore him until he comes to you and go take a look at the rest of the fucking place before I put my fist into your teeth.”

The puppy growled in agreement. Dick got up slowly and backed off. Either this was a whacky fever dream or Jason was really going to sock him in the face. He had his first meeting with his agent the day after tomorrow. No need for fresh bruises.

He started with the door closest to him. It led to a decently-sized, immaculate bath room with the lower half painted in the same shade of deep blue. The lights were warm though and so was the heater. Dick shrugged out of his boots – and grimaced at the thought that he should have done that at the front door, because now Alfred would probably have to clean up after him – took off his socks, and stepped onto the mat in front of the bathtub. It felt like sinking into a marshmallow and Dick sighed in bliss. He was half-tempted to just curl up right then and there and go to sleep.

The other half of him knew he couldn’t do that to the others. They had been planning this surprise for him. Alfred had even come over to cook dinner. It would be rude to take a nap now. Not to mention, at least one of them was bound to grab video for future blackmail. Not his brightest idea.

The second door led to what Dick could only assume to be the master bedroom, with a queen-sized bed and sheets in Egyptian blue. The arrangement of the furniture matched his old apartment’s bed room to a T, and Dick had no doubt that Barb and Tim had deliberately modeled it to be as familiar as possible. The ensuite bathroom looked similar to the other one, only with the colors reversed. Dick returned to the bedroom and opened the closet.

He recognized half the clothes in there, from his various safe-houses across Blüdhaven. Which of his siblings had gone through the trouble to break in and get them without Dick noticing was anybody’s guess, but the other half, the ones that looked all new and shiny were definitely Barb’s choices. He knew her style just as well as she knew his size.

The last room was a smaller bedroom. Just like the colors had been inverted between the bathrooms, this one was an inversion of the master bedroom. To think that Tim and Jason had done all of this in only three days, without him so much as having the slightest inkling...

“You crazy bastards...”

Dick smiled through the slight stab of tears in the corners of his eyes. His brothers were idiots, but they were also amazing. Barbara was crazy for having picked this place. He didn’t even want to imagine how much the rent plus deposit had been. He had the best siblings in the world.

“So... verdict?”

Dick turned around slowly and swallowed the little laugh that climbed up his throat just in time. Jason looked downright menacing, leaning in the door frame with his arms crossed in front of his chest and a scowl to make Bruce look friendly... right down unto his shins, where a silver husky that was more fur than dog pawed at his legs, giving tiny little yaps.

Jason Todd – lethal, masked vigilante, former military commander, and proud owner of seven pounds of fur. Dick grinned. “It’s perfect. Thank you, Jason.”

“Yay.” Jason frowned. “Take a shower and get changed. As soon as I’m done walking this fur ball, we’re having dinner.”

Dick nodded and watched him disappear through the front door, then went back to the master bathroom. The shower was almost instantly hot and Dick sighed in bliss. Gotham and Blüdhaven were always cold and rainy and it had taken him all of one night on stakeout duty to come and appreciate the luxury that was a good shower. By the time he was done, his skin felt like it was glowing. He barely remembered to throw the suit into the hamper – Jason had always complained about him leaving laundry lying around when he had come to visit Dick and somehow Dick doubted Joker and the militia had gotten that out of him – and headed for the closet. The clothes were positioned just as they had been in his old apartment and so all it took was a handful of routine moves before he was fully dressed. Dick closed the closet doors and let himself fall back onto the bed.

It was like falling into a truckload of warm feathers. Above him, the crystal chandelier sparkled in bright silver. In the distance, Tim and Barbara laughed and joked about one thing or another. Suddenly, all the trouble of the last few days, all the strain that the additional work load from Red Hood having barely been around for three months had put on him, took hold and he felt as if his bones were made from lead. Dick closed his eyes to relax for a few seconds and was out before he had finished exhaling.

***

Jason cursed as he closed and locked the door behind himself. On the upside, Thor had not tried to eat his own poop this time. On the downside, he had apparently discovered how much _fun_ it was to shake out his rain soaked fur right _after_ people took off their jackets. Of course, he had known that owning a dog would mean fifteen years of constant suppression of shenanigans.

But did it have to be today of all days?

“You’re getting water all over Dick’s shiny new walls, Thor.” The puppy gave a happy little bark and wagged his tail. Jason threw up his hands in surrender and unclipped the leash. “You are hopeless, you know that?”

Thor barked again and took off down the hall, probably back into his little hideout. Jason could hardly blame him. Too many people. Too much noise.

He was almost back at the living room when he realized that one voice was missing.

The door to the master bedroom was still closed and that was suspicious enough. Dick didn’t like closed doors and tended to avoid them at all costs, at least inside his own apartment. Jason knocked once, then slipped in quietly.

Dick was sprawled out on the bed, his limbs twisted in ways that would make him commission an x-ray if it wasn’t the world’s only human octopus he was watching. It was the knowledge that Dick never passed out in the middle of a party unless he was really, really tired that made the situation decidedly less hilarious.

“Dick!” He kicked the foot dangling over the edge of the bed lightly. All he got in response was an unintelligible growl. Jason frowned, went into the bathroom, took a plastic cup from the cabinet and filled it with ice-cold water. He returned to the bedroom, but kept this distance, and emptied it with a flick of the wrist.

Apparently, Dick’s reflexes were still top-notch. Jason grinned as he started spluttering through the first seconds of a very rude awakening and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

“Jason? What the hell?”

“I did try to wake you gently first, princess.” Jason set the cup down and headed for the door. “Dinner should be ready. Get your top model ass out of bed and to the living room or I’ll drag you there by your ankles.” It was an empty threat. He’d have a better chance trying to catch a handful of monkeys.

Back in the living room, dinner really was ready. Barbara had set the table. Tim had changed into his civvies and was helping Alfred ready the appetizer. Horiatiki salad. Dick’s favorite. Over in the box in the corner, Thor sat, ears up and head down, as if he couldn’t quite decide whether he wanted to come and see what those humans were doing or just hide in his box some more. By the time Jason had dug a treat out of his backpack on the nearby shelf and handed it to him, Dick had finally arrived.

It was as if another person had slept in that room. Gone was the fatigue and the grouchiness. There was a bright smile on his face and a cheer to his voice and for once it was not fake. Jason joined Alfred on the smaller side couch and watched as Dick took over the conversation with practiced ease.

Apparently, he had found a job. How and when he had had time for it in between extra patrol duties was another question entirely, but he had done it. He had called in a few favors from his early days in Blüdhaven, when he had been modeling for a local ad company to have something to do in the months between leaving the manor and starting at the police academy. Now they had hired him back for the spring collection.

Halfway through the main course – another favorite of Dick’s that his family had used to prepare whenever they were on tour in Louisiana: rabbit gumbo – Tim’s phone rang loudly. He turned off the phone, finished his bite, and left for the kitchen. Half a minute later he was back with five glasses and a bottle of champagne that made Jason happy he had not been there when Tim had bought it. It looked expensive as fuck.

“So... it’s midnight, folks.” Tim popped the cork and poured the champagne quickly, then sat back down again. “And you know what that means.”

“March 21st,” Jason grumbled as he reached for his glass. He had never seen the point of alcohol, outside of getting completely do-not-remember-what-happened-here hammered and the champagne was nowhere near strong enough for that.

“Happy 26th birthday, Dick!”

Barbara was the first to raise her glass. Alfred and Tim followed quickly, then Jason. Dick went last, making sure to clink glasses with each of them before downing his champagne.

Jason waited until the main course was finished, before getting up and preparing the little package of dog food he had brought. It took him six calls until Thor finally crawled out from his hideout, but at least he did. Jason had half expected him to hide from everyone and everything for the entire night, food be damned.

“Sit.” That took another four tries, but eventually it worked. Jason rubbed the puppies head quickly and set down the food, then returned to the living room with the pots of tea and hot chocolate while Alfred portioned the pie.

Dick grinned at him from the other side of the coffee table. “He’s the cutest. How old is he?”

“Eight weeks, pushing nine,” Jason answered as he poured the cups. Hot chocolate for Barb and Dick, tea for Alfred, Tim, and himself. He was going to have enough teeth-rotting sweetness this night already, thank you very much. “That’s why I brought him here tonight. Can’t leave him alone for more than two or three hours yet.”

Dick smiled at that. Not the amused, laughing kind of smile, but a deeply satisfied, heart-melted smile. It made the hairs on Jason’s neck stand up.

“What?”

“You know what you just said implies that you’re planning to stay here for more than two hours?”

“So? You planning to kick me out after dinner or—“

“No!” Dick, pale as he was already, lost another shade of color. “Dear God, no, Jason, I’m sorry!” He rubbed his eyes quickly and shook his head. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just... Jason, I’m really, really happy that you’re here tonight. And that you’re planning to stay for a while. That is the best present I could have wished for today. Honestly.”

“Damn,” Barb rolled her eyes over a sip of tea. “And here we actually went and bought you stuff when all we had to do was show up.”

Dick’s laugh came as quickly as it went. He raised an eyebrow. “Wait. You guys bought me stuff? I mean, you already got me the apartment and the furniture and painted everything.”

“Well, maybe we just like you,” Tim offered as he helped Alfred arrange the plates of pie, each with a side of vanilla ice cream. Another favorite, of course.

The dessert didn’t last long after that, not that it would have, even without the promise of gifts to come. Alfred’s blueberry pie was to die for. Jason helped him clean up the table and sort the dishes into the washer, then went to take Thor for another walk.

When he returned, the coffee table was almost overflowing with presents.

The boxes were all wrapped in silver paper with blue ribbons. Jason watched as Dick tore through the wrapping of the perfectly wrapped, medium-sized one first and felt just the slightest urge to strangle his brother. All that effort Alfred had put into wrapping it so nicely – gone in a few seconds. At least he was more careful with the fancy-looking black velvet box inside. Dick opened it carefully and smiled at the contents.

“I might have known...”

Alfred took a sip from his second cup of tea and frowned slightly. “If you think I would let you move into your new dwellings without providing at least one proper suit and a pair of dress shoes to you, you are severely mistaken, Master Grayson.”

Dick laughed at that, but thanked Alfred nonetheless. Yes, it had been predictable, but Dick had all the fashion sense of a color-blind walrus. This gift was a life-saver.

Next, Dick reached for the small block that was Jason’s present. The box came off as quickly as the paper and Dick’s face lit up the same moment Barbara sighed.

“Oh yeah! Lava lamp!”

“Oh god, no.” Barb rubbed her temples. “Seriously, Jason? You have to fuel his kitsch addiction?”

“It’s no ordinary lamp.” Jason pointed at the power socket below the blue ocean wall shelf. “I suggest putting it there. For extra effect.”

Dick nodded, got up, and plugged in the lamp. He chose the center of the little cubic shelves as its designated spot and flicked the switch. The lamp came on with a quiet hum and a soft glow. Slowly, as the light grew stronger, a trio of jellyfish rose lazily from the surface, swimming up to the top of the lamp, then bouncing and returning to the ground.

“Best. Lava. Lamp. Ever!” Dick almost jumped and Jason instantly backed off an inch. He had agreed to show up for this party. He had not agreed to getting tackle-hugged by the resident Blüdhaven octopus. “Those are not real jellyfish, right?”

“Of course not,” Jason scoffed. “You couldn’t pet a rock to save your life.”

“I think a rock might just be fine, actually,” Tim offered with a slight grin, “but I agree that this is awesome.”

Thor disagreed. He had left his box to come and growl at the fake jellyfish. Thankfully, Dick chose the path of least resistance and switched off the lamp.

“Ok. No jellyfish while the puppy is here.”

“At least not for now.” Jason poured himself another cup of tea. He was going to refill the pot, too, but Alfred snatched it from him with practiced ease. Jason shook his head. “I do plan on teaching him not to chase after small critters, but he’s only just learning how to exist in a normal environment and he has so much to learn—“

“It’s ok, Jason, really.” There was a sudden softness to Dick’s voice that never ceased to amaze him. “I wasn’t blaming him. Let him take all the time he needs. He’ll be fine eventually.”

With that, Dick returned to the couch and reached for the final two packages. He started with the bigger one, the one that said “handle with care” all over the paper and actually showed some restraint this time. It soon became clear why.

The PS4 was brand new and perfectly matched the TV screen Tim had set up in the far left corner of the room. Dick thanked him, then handed it right back to him for installation. There was very little doubt now about what the smaller item was. It was the perfect size for a PS4 game.

“Please be _Guardians of Gotham_! Please be _Guardians of Gotham_! Please be _Guardians of Gotham_!”

It wasn’t Guardians of Gotham. Dick stared in mild disappointment and not so mild puzzlement at the game in his hand.

“Huh... I don’t remember ever seeing this in the batfam merchandise line-up.”

“That’s because it’s never been distributed in the US.” Tim finished hooking up the cables. The PS4 booted with a quiet hum and he handed the controller to Dick. “It is a fan game, developed, voiced and distributed by a Nightwing fan club in Japan. The original title is _Daitan'na bishōnen jikei-dan Nightwing - seigi no tsubasa_ , if I recall correctly.”

Dick laughed. Jason cringed.

“’Daring boy vigilante Nightwing – Wings of Justice’! Oh man, this is gonna be awesome!”

“This is gonna suck.” Jason facepalmed and it was only the good manners Alfred had drilled into him that kept him from flat-out begging Alfie to help him escape from this. He glared at Tim over the fresh cup of tea Alfred had just handed him. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but we aren’t all fluent in Japanese.”

“I am,” Dick chimed in happily.

“Barb and I know a bit.”

“Yeah, so do I,” Jason admitted, “but I’m guessing it wouldn’t be enough to understand a full game. Also, the text on the cover and the back is in English and the game was never licensed in the US...”

“That’s right.” Tim grinned.

“This is a fandub.”

“Oh my God!” Dick was apparently in heaven. He all but threw the case at Tim. “Put it in now! I gotta see this!”

Jason groaned. “It’s gonna be full of translation errors and horribly corrupted script, Dick.”

“I know!”

Somehow, that prospect only seemed to make him giddier. Barb laughed. Tim grinned as he joined her on the couch. Jason started counting the minutes until he’d have to take Thor for another walk and wondering if he could somehow blame it on the dog if he left early.

Predictably, the intro sequence was the cheesiest thing since the invention of cheddar. Jason cringed at the so-called ‘quality’ of the ‘voice-acting’ and the way the character model was bending as it swung from rooftop to rooftop. Even Dick wasn’t _that_ flexible. Hell, he doubted Thor could pull those stunts off and he could lick his own balls. To top it all off, the textures made Jason want to cry. It didn’t look like Blüdhaven or even Gotham. It looked like Tokyo. A very badly rendered Tokyo.

The main menu looked innocent enough, from what Jason could tell. Japanese had been on his bat-approved curriculum, of course, but Joker had gotten in the way. Later, during his time with the militia, he had learned the basics from Lieutenant Sasahara and Specialists Ito and Tanaka, but a lot of it had been military jargon. He doubted it was going to help him reverse-engineer BSE – badly spoken English. That was provided the constant, hammering j-pop was not going to drive him to a murderous rage first.

The real trouble started with the tutorial. A helpfully unhelpful button prompt instructed them to ‘move the left stick’. Supposedly, there had been a statement about the purpose of the left stick in there in the original, but it was lost now. The next prompts were better, although there were several articles missing. Jason scoffed. If he had written like that in his GED exams, he would have failed miserably.

Then the storyline started.

The first objective read ‘Penguins robbed hostage! Everyone in the room becomes free even if you can not see it.’ Jason squinted at the screen.

“The fuck?”

“Okay...” Tim sounded skeptical, too. “I get the first part, but what is up with the second sentence?”

“Well, if I translate it back literally, I get ‘Pengin wa hitojichi o ubatta! Mienakute mo heya no daremoga jiyu ni narimasu’.” Dick beamed at their confused faces. “It’s horrible Japanese, but let’s just assume these guys had more heart than brains. It can also translate as ‘The Penguin has taken hostages! Free everyone in the room without getting seen.’”

“That would make slightly more sense than the mangled mess we have right there,” Barbara conceded over a cup of hot chocolate. Jason watched her fingers twitch around the cup as Dick got spotted and had to start over four times in a room. Barb and Tim were perfectionists and pro gamers. Jason knew that for a fact. He could only imagine, though, how painful it must have been for them to watch Dick fail over and over again without losing an ounce of his cheer. For Dick, games were not about winning. There was enough seriousness and zero room for error in their daily work.

On the fifth attempt, ‘Daring Nightwing’, whose costume really lent itself more to the adjective ‘dazzling’ finally saved all tree hostages. Dick pumped his fist, then continued into the next room, which turned out to be a battle sequence. The gameplay was a direct rip-off of the US-licensed _Batman and Robin_ series, but at least the translations were ok. Until the sniper appeared.

“Throw a battalang to get out the latin man.” Dick grinned at the TV screen. “Does this guy look Latinamerican to you, guys?”

“Nah, Chinese, more like.”

“Actually, I was gonna say Korean.” Barbara pointed the insignia on his jacket. “That’s a South Korean gang sign that was primarily used during the late nineties. They called themselves ‘The Blue Tigers’ and they were more into drugs than guns.”

“In my own personal opinion, one usually follows the other,” Jason muttered through clenched teeth. “Just throw the stupid ‘battalang’ and get it over with.”

“But we agree he’s not Lat-am, right?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Dick...” Jason wanted to murder the developers. If this was going to continue, they would never even make it past the first chapter.

“Definitely not Latinamerican.”

Dick selected the ‘battalang’ from the 'utensil' menu where it was misspelled as ‘badarang’ and threw it quickly. Jason wasn't sure what was more disappointing: the fact that the sniper went down with one hit or the grievous absence of whisks and spatulas from the 'utensil' menu. Dick proceeded to the next area, where the designated boss was waiting for him. The hulking monster made Dick frown.

“Holy spandex, Brutale, buddy! What exactly made you think that diving into Bane’s Venom steroid stash was a good idea?”

Barbara cringed. “Whatever it was, he needs to take less of it. There’s no way his spine could support that much muscle. Also, he’s missing a neck.”

Tim shrugged. “Maybe they just commissioned Lowefelt for the art.”

Dick laughed as he started maneuvering his game counterpart around the villain. Evading was easy, getting hits in as well, but Brutale’s health bar barely budged. Jason sighed.

“Commencing obligatory defeat in five, four, three, two, one—“

The game cut to pre-rendered footage of Brutale grabbing Nightwing by the ankle and flinging him around like a rag doll. Tim and Barb looked at him, stunned.

“Jason, how did you—“

“Health bar that doesn’t move? Check. Boss fight? Check. What’s the thing they haven’t introduced yet?”

Tim and Dick shrugged. The scene finished with Nightwing picking himself up after getting flung through a window and shouting at Brutale about what a bad idea it had been to make him angry. Then the screen froze and another tutorial hint appeared. Jason sighed.

“Special moves. There are always special moves in these kind of games.”

“When did you become the gaming expert?”

Tim was only half-joking. Jason decided to humor him. “Venezuela. We had an Xbox in the rec room and if I had a nickel for every time I had to pry some of my guys away from the thing because they were late for training, I’d have had enough money to fund Halloween without Scarecrow.”

“You smashed it, didn’t you?” Dick laughed over the words, but there was just a hint of concern there, too. Jason rolled his eyes.

“What do you think I am? Some kinda savage?” He leaned back into the couch and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I opened the damn thing up when no-one was looking and rewired some of the cooling system so it’d shut off after about twenty minutes. Jefferson eventually emptied and AK-47 clip into it when it crashed two minutes before he won the Fifa finals.”

“And so the problem almost solved itself.” Dick grinned. “Okay, let’s see, hold R2 and L2...”

He did as told and the ridiculously overlong attack unfolded on screen with the text ‘RISING POSITIVE’ laid over the screen in big, bold, blue capital letters in fancy font. Dick paused.

“Okay. I’m all for staying positive, but what the heck?”

Barbara squinted at the screen. “Honey, does that R look slightly cutoff to you?”

“Yeah...” Tim followed her example. “Looks like a text box issue. It’s not big enough.”

“That’s what she said.”

The words bounced around Jason’s skull the moment he said them. On the other couch, Barb blinked at him once, before breaking into howling laughter. Dick managed to hold on just long enough to grab his phone and take a snapshot of Tim’s quickly blushing face before joining her on a plane of existence that was made of hilarity.

“I hate you all.” Tim grabbed his own phone and started tapping away at the screen. Jason grinned. He was probably gonna suffer for it in some way, shape or form later, but for now, it really was hilarious. “So I think—“ The laughter continued. “Guys—“ Barb and Dick where still wheezing with laughter.

Jason got up slowly and walked over to the freezer. He gave Alfred a look that all but screamed ‘these utter children’ and got a sympathetic nod in return. Then he retrieved the ice cube box from the bottom drawer, broke out a handful of cubes, and returned to the living room. Barb saw him coming just in time and retreated quickly, but Dick was still lost in amusement. Jason lifted the back of his collar and dumped the cubes in with a quick flick.

The yelp was loud enough to startle Thor out of his box. Jason sat down with him and started quick obedience training. Thor always calmed down more quickly when he had something to focus on. Five minutes later, the puppy had had a good belly rub and Jason was back on the couch.

Dick glared at him. “That was cold. Literally.”

Jason shrugged and nodded at Tim. “So what did you find?”

“Well.” Tim tossed the phone back onto the coffee table. “I found a screenshot of the original game. The Japanese text reads ‘jōshō suru sei’, which, apparently, really does mean ‘rising positive’.

Dick seemed to ponder that for a minute, then reached for the notepad and pencil on the lower level of the table. He wrote out the possible hiragana and kanji combinations. Thirty seconds later, Dick nearly jumped from his seat.

“Hah! Got it!” He added the one character before and after one of the sentences. “You said it was cutoff, so I figured the Japanese was probably missing characters as well. Like this it reads as ‘Kyūjōshō suru seigi’, which means ‘Rising Justice’.”

“That does make marginally more sense,” Tim admitted.

“Is there any way you could write it that would translate as ‘Rising Collar’?” Barb lobbed back. “Because that collar is _something_.”

“It looks vintage!” Dick argued.

Tim snorted. “I’d advocate for ‘Rising Neckline’. I mean, if this were rule 63, that costume would be a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen.”

“It’s dramatic!”

“Wait.” Jason’s brain ground to a halt. He finished his tea, then held up his hands to keep Dick from digging himself deeper. At least for another few seconds. “Tim, you said this was done by a Nightwing fanclub, couple of years ago, right?”

“Right.”

“When exactly?”

Tim paused. “The original was for PS3. Came out in 2010. Why?”

“Because they must have gotten the inspiration from somewhere.” Jason grinned at Dick. “And I remember a certain someone telling me he had to tailor his first costume from scratch and some old aerialist designs because getting the custom-designed materials for a proper suit from Wayne Tech without Bruce noticing was a pain in the ass.”

Dick, shameless creature that he was, merely rolled his shoulders. “I only wore it for, like, three months or so.” Barb’s mouth fell open. Tim nearly choked on his tea. Dick shrugged. “What? I worked as a model for half a year. Trust me, it wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever worn. It was elegant and beautiful.” He grimaced at the close-up shot that had come at the end of the special attack. “Had less glitter and feathers than this thing, but I’m all for showmanship, so bring it on.”

Now it was Tim’s turn to howl. Jason nearly missed the buzzing of his phone as a new text arrived over the noise that filled the room as Barb tried to calm down her husband and talk some sense into her poor fashion-illiterate brother. The number on the display made him wish the damn phone would just explode right then and there. Jason got off the couch quickly and headed for the fridge.

Now was a good time for alcohol.

“Bad news, Master Todd?”

Alfred only made eye contact briefly, before opening the now finished dish washer and sorting in the cutlery. Jason set the phone down on the counter and sighed deeply. “Don’t know. Honestly I’m kind of scared to look.”

Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “Has Master Bruce managed to get hold of your phone number by some underhanded means?”

“I hope not.” Jason shook his head and took a long breath. “It ain’t him. I know the number. I know the sender.”

“Master Todd, this wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with a certain letter you wrote earlier this month?”

He felt his blood freeze. “How--?”

“Master Todd,” Alfred picked up the phoned and turned it over in his hands. It was locked now, of course, but that didn’t make it any less terrifying. “When did you send that letter?”

Jason swallowed. “Yesterday. I know...” He scowled at the phone. “Took my sweet ass time writing it and even longer sending it. I should be ashamed.”

“Only a little,” Alfred conceded. “The merciful Lord knows Master Bruce did not exactly set a healthy example for you when it comes to admitting to one’s mistakes, but you did send it and now you have an answer. Only a day later. Which means that this is either a scathing, seething rebuttal and a demand to never contact her again or it is a thank you for your courage in admitting your mistakes. Do you really think that either one of those could be worse than the constant, nagging feeling of insecurity from _not_ looking at this message?”

Jason cringed. Alfred was right. Of course he was. Worst case scenario, he was about to be called a thousand names and threatened with a restraining order. Then all he had to do was cut all contact. It was easier than spending the rest of fuck knew how long thinking about the possibility. “Thanks Alfred.”

He headed for the door that connected the kitchen to the fire escape, only for Alfred to grab his hand.

“Master Todd... do I need to keep an eye on you out there?”

“Don’t think so,” Jason admitted with a crooked little smirk. “I’ve got seven pounds of fur to take care of. The only thing that might be taking a hundred-feet dive is my phone.”

Alfred nodded and let him go. Jason slipped out and bristled.

It was no longer snowing and the rain had slowed to a drizzle, but it was still cold outside. Blüdhaven still stank and somewhere in the distance a siren was sounding. Jason took a deep breath, unlocked the phone, and opened the message.

_Apology accepted._

“Oh thank you, Miranda...” He braced his forearms on the railing and forced more of the cold night air in and out of his lungs. For once, the universe had decided not to be a colossal dick to him. It was a good start. It felt strange, but good. Jason stretched his arms, ignored the slight cracking in his shoulder and was just about to turn back around when a second message arrived.

_But if you ever wanna go for round 3, I insist on less yelling and more tea ;)_

Jason blinked. This was either a good hoax, a cruel joke, or the universe completely blank-spacing on its hidden agenda to make his life miserable. Perhaps it was trap. It didn’t feel like it, but he wasn’t sure. The one thing he did know was that this was ridiculous. He was twenty-fucking-one. He should have learned this a long time ago.

Jason retrieved his emergency cigarette and lighter from his pocket. It was a bad habit, but it helped with the nerves. One step at a time.

He probably would have learned, in the years that Joker had stolen from him, had he been given half a chance. In hindsight, it was painfully obvious that Dick had at least tried to help him out in that regard. Jason hadn’t wanted his help then. He was pretty sure he didn’t want it now. Bulls in china shops and all that. Barb perhaps. Probably. She usually knew—

“You are going to catch your death out here like this.”

Jason suppressed the flinch and swallowed the insult. He should have at least _felt_ that he was here. He had gotten sloppy. Jason took a deep drag, huffed out the smoke, and turned around slowly.

He was perched on top of the roof, just by ledge above the fire escape. The dark gray costume was almost swallowed by the night, but there was the faint swish of a cape and the lighter patches of Bruce’s face. The lenses were off, revealing blue eyes that looked tired, almost melancholic. Jason scoffed.

“What’s the matter? Slow night in Gotham? Or are things going to hell so quickly you actually do need one of us?”

“Neither.” Bruce’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Jason could all but see his mind fumble for the words. It took almost a minute. Jason didn’t mind. He was having a good anxiety smoke and he knew where all his possible exits were. Not to mention his three possibly still very pissed off at Bruce siblings. “How have you been, Jason?”

He nearly swallowed his cigarette. “Excuse me? Fucking what now?”

“Language.”

“Oh no!” Jason shook his head. “You don’t get to change the topic. I asked you a question and you can’t tell me you came all the way here, from Gotham, on a solo patrol night, just to ask me how the fuck I’ve been.”

More calculating. More word-finding. Finally, Bruce took a deep breath. “I came here to see Dick, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you or Tim or Barbara.”

“Wow...” Jason stubbed the cigarette out on the railing and flicked the butt off the fire escape. Yeah, littering was a crime. Fuck it. He had bigger concerns now. “Alright, who are you and what have you done with Bruce?”

“The last time I saw you, you had just narrowly escaped death,” Batman continued, seemingly undeterred, but Jason knew better. He had worked and lived with Bruce for months. He knew the tells. “You were hurt. You were traumatized. You haven’t been on patrol in weeks.” This time the pause lasted for almost half a minute. “I worry, Jason.”

“Getting soft and sappy in your old age?”

Bruce sighed. An honest to god sigh. “I am not trying to antagonize you, Jason. I am being serious. Please.”

If he had still had the cigarette, Jason would have swallowed it now. Definitely. Jason cleared his throat and blinked at the fucking mirage in front of him. Maybe this really was a weird dream. Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe this was real. In the end, what did it matter, really?

“I scaled back on patrol,” Jason started. “Muscles aren’t back up to scratch yet. Been focusing more on training, research, investigating... that sort of stuff. Had a pretty bad depressive episode...” And the less said about that, the better. He shook his head and started playing with the lighter. “Had an emergency career- and future-planning intervention with Barb. Adopted a dog. His name is Thor.” Jason nodded into the direction of the living room. “Husky puppy. Can’t leave him alone for more than two hours, so there’s one more reason to scale back on patrol. Painted Dick’s apartment. Oh, and I had my GED exams this morning.” Perhaps he should have started with that. Then again, Jason was not surprised he had nearly forgotten. “Aced it. Full points. Gave me seven hours and I did it in two. Took them longer to grade the damn thing than it took me to finish.”

Bruce remained quiet. His face remained stone, but Jason could all but hear the gears turn in his head. Probably psycho-analyzing, thinking of ways to keep him off patrol, off the streets for longer. Jason was ready for it. He was gonna tear Bruce a new one.

“Are you still planning to go to Princeton?”

“Still?!” Jason gave a hysterical laugh. “Pick up a dictionary, old man! ‘Still’ would imply that Princeton had been anywhere on my mind for the last six fucking years, but it wasn’t! You know what was? Surviving. Not putting a bullet through my head. Maybe putting one through yours. Maybe mine. Fucking PTSD and clowns and fear gas and this whole damn city nearly going to hell because of me, so take your fucking ‘still’ and cram it where—“

“Jason?”

Dick’s voice cut through his, sharp as a scalpel. The difference between Dick’s calm baritone and Jason’s ever-climbing, ever-more-agitated, grating growls was almost frightening and yet strangely familiar. Dick joined him on the fire escape, stopping just a foot shy of touching him, before following his line of sight.

“Bruce?” He didn’t seem to believe it any more than Jason had. Then, the surprise faded from his voice and was replaced by a blank and cold smoothness that reminded Jason of porcelain. Nice, but cold. “What did you do?” Bruce raised an eyebrow, but Dick wasn’t having it. “And don’t try to give me any bullshit. You’re the first and only person Jason’s been fuming at tonight, so you must have done something.”

“We were talking about Princeton.”

“No,” Jason curled his fingers around the railing. “I talked about acing my GED. You went straight to fucking Princeton.”

“It _is_ where you are planning to go.”

Bruce seemed honestly confused. Normally, that would have been enough for Dick to give him the benefit of the doubt. Normally, that would have made Dick try to play mediator. Instead, he leaned over the railing, double-checked if there were any unwelcome eyes or ears following their conversation, and turned around to the shadow on the rooftop ledge once more.

“Bruce, you complete and utter emotional brick! Seriously?! For real?!” Dick face-palmed, then ran a hand through his hair and pointed his finger at Bruce. “It doesn’t matter if he’s planning to go to Princeton or not. Jason passed his GED with FULL POINTS! No errors. Nada, zero, zip! The words you’re looking for are ‘Jason, that’s great – I’m so proud of you, son – well done – congratulations’, not ‘oh ok, cool, so when are you actually going to do something that requires actual above-average intelligence’.”

“That’s not what I sa—“

“You didn’t _have to_!” Dick’s arms had regained a life of their own, underscoring every word with a jab, every explanation with a gesture. “You didn’t have to, because it’s _implied_. I know you flunked out of every college and university you ever went to after you thought you learned everything you needed, but I’d hope you’d at least remember the entry requirements for the freaking Ivy League! It’s hard getting in there, Bruce! It’s hard enough for people with normal school careers and normal lives, and yet here you are, jumping the gun with _Jason_. Just because you know we’re strong enough to survive getting flung off a skyscraper doesn’t mean you should do it. It is NOT a compliment.”

Dick took a deep breath. “So now that we’ve got that out of the way, what the hell are you doing here?”

Whatever it was that Bruce had come for, Jason was sure it didn’t matter anymore. Bruce was terrible with criticism. Jason was only waiting for him to give that disappointed scowl of his, turn around, and grapple off into the night. Clearly, Dick was feeling the same way.

It was because of that that he instantly recognized the gasp of surprise when Bruce pulled a tiny little package out of his utility belt and held it towards Dick.

“Happy birthday, Dick.”

Jason watched as Dick’s fingers curled around the package slowly. He was more careful with it than Jason had ever seen him with any present and that alone was scary. When he was done unwrapping it, Dick clasped a hand over his mouth in shock.

“Oh. My. God.”

“What is it?”

“Haly’s Circus poker card set.”

Dick opened the little plastic box the cards came in and leafed through them quickly and extracted the King, Queen, and Jack of Spades. Even in spite of the slightly cartoony likeness, Jason recognized them instantly. John, Mary, and Richard Grayson.

“This was a promotional thing Haly started after I joined my parents’ act,” Dick explained with a tiny smile on his lips. “Every town we went to we would hand out five of those sets to random winners from the audience, so these are limited edition. Prices online are pretty insane.”

“Let me guess: you had one of those sets?”

“Yeah.” Dick laughed. “Until it went up in smoke. You know, I can live with all my furniture and clothes and all that being reduced to cinders, but this set... this set and all the pictures – that’s what really bothered me.”

He tucked the cards back into their case and hid them safely in one of his pockets. Bruce was still waiting, seemingly unmoving as the gargoyles that adorned the city roof-tops, as Dick faced him once more.

“Thank you, Bruce. It’s a wonderful gift and I really appreciate it, but if you think that that’s just going to magically fix everything...”

“I don’t.” At last, the moment had come. Bruce got up slowly, until he all but towered above them, but there was no aggression in the gesture. “Enjoy your party, Dick. We’ll talk another night.” Bruce made a hint of a turn, then suddenly stopped. He seemed to be fishing for words and Jason suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at the slightly insecure tone Bruce's voice acquired. "And Jason... Good work on the GED."

Jason watched with his eyes straining through the darkness as Ghost disappeared in the shadows once more. He waited another minute, just to be sure, then turned to Dick.

“Did you really just tell Bruce to get lost over what he said to me?”

Dick laughed again and this time there was a hint of bashfulness in it that didn’t come from Dick very often. “No... although I’m going to be honest with you – I was ready to deck him in the face for it. No, this is is...” He took a deep breath. “It’s about the Iceberg Lounge.”

 _The choice_. Jason remembered. Both Nightwing and Robin had been seconds away from death. Ghost could only save one. He had relied on Red Hood to get there in time to save the other. And he had chosen Dick.

“I’m not worth any more or less than Tim,” Dick said quietly. “Or Barbara. Or you. I understand he had to make a choice. I know if he had chosen Tim, it would be Tim who’d be pissed off with him, not me. There is no way he could have come out of that with both of us all fine and dandy.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“What’s the problem?” Dick rolled his eyes at Jason. “The problem is that I want Bruce to acknowledge that it was a tough choice. I don’t want him to hand-wave it with an excuse, just like I didn't want him to just shrug off your GED. I don’t want him to tell me that he knew you would get there in time. I mean, it’s great that he has that much faith in you, but I want him to acknowledge that the choice was not easy. I want him to acknowledge that he cares about, that he loves, all of us, because I know he does, but the way he is expressing it – or better yet, not expressing it – is not healthy for anyone. Not for him. Not for you. Not for Tim. Not for Barb. Not for me. Certainly not for poor Alfie, who has had to put up with his royal Emotional Obtuseness for longer than all of us put together. I want him to acknowledge that we are a family. Then we can talk about forgiveness.”

“Well, if it helps...” Jason gritted his teeth. He couldn’t believe that he was actually saying this. He must have gone completely insane. “I do think he’s trying. And improving. I mean, believe it or not, we actually had a halfway decent conversation, before he mentioned the fucking college.”

Dick grinned. “I do believe it, Jason.” He gave him a short pat on the back. “If there’s one thing I’ve learnt from the last few months with you it’s that sometimes it’s the smallest steps that are the most important.”

With that, Dick disappeared back into the kitchen. Jason took a deep breath and finally closed the message on his phone. He’d reply to it tomorrow. Or the day after. It wasn’t a priority. Right now, the priority was that he was out on a balcony, slowly freezing his ass off, while Dick was trying to have a birthday party in his brand new apartment.

Or perhaps it wasn’t. Jason felt a grin creep onto his face as he watched Dick wrangle the controller from Barb while Alfred served his home-made samosas and tacos with his custom dips and Tim retrieved five bottles of beer from the fridge. Granted, Alfred would probably decline, but it was only polite. By the time Jason got back to the couch, Dick and Barb were still fighting for the controller.

“This is my home, not yours,” Dick pouted.

“Aw, come on Dick, home is where the heart is!”

Tim grinned as he documented the madness with his camera. The bright flash was all it took to break up the fight just long enough. Jason reached for the controller quickly and turned to the TV.

“So, what’s up? Let’s see... _‘Oracle has found a new lead in the Maroni case. Sending you the data now.’_ ” Jason raised an eyebrow. “Well, either this game is breaking the fourth wall or they ran out of money to pay a voice actor for Dick’s Alfred.”

“Well, these were the early years of Master Grayson’s solo career,” Alfred said quietly. “I believe lack of financial resources really was an issue at the time.”

“Yeah, yeah, I flew the coop pretty abruptly,” Dick admitted. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Jason held up the controller in Dick’s direction. “I just started the mission and it looks like you have thirty seconds to escape from the crumbling rooftop of death.”

Dick’s eyes widened and he lunged forward immediately. Just as predicted, Tim’s camera clicked just as he was _just_ close enough to be in a shot with Jason. It wasn’t going to be the best picture, but it was a start. Baby steps.

Jason got up so that Dick could stretch out on the couch and save his virtual ass from certain doom. He grabbed his beer and headed for the cardboard box instead, tickling Thor behind his right ear as he watched the chaos unfold. Dick was failing miserably at the game, but at least he was having fun. Barb had apparently decided that, since she was referenced in-game, she might as well play along with the charade and provide live ‘Oracle commentary’. Tim was lost in his photography, but Jason had no doubt that almost all those pictures would end up on one of the walls eventually. Alfred had sat down in the single arm chair in the room, finally granting himself some well-deserved rest after a long day. Jason took a sip from his beer and let it wash down the last, bitter notes left behind by Bruce’s visit.

No, things were not perfect yet. He doubted they ever would be. But Bruce was trying. Alfred, Tim, Barbara, and Dick were all trying. Jason was trying, too. To let go. To move on. Some days were harder than others, but tonight wasn’t one of those.

Tonight, he was home.


End file.
